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Cait Harbs Feb 2017
I crawl into worlds of words
to escape the one world to which I'm bound,
burrowing deep inside pages
that carry me away from this cursed ground.
I'm sorry, darling, truly,
that I still run away into these places unknown,
and that I leave you, here,
to face the flames of this burning house alone.

I know that we both thought
our love would give me reason enough to stay,
but my god, I've never learned
to rely on only my spine for support each day.
Forgive me, love, I do not mean
to retreat into the forest growing in the library from you,
but without these daydreams, these
intricate mansions of imagination, I don't know what I'd do.

You can always come with me,
or you can find a heart that does not roam
to the fields beyond reality -
one not used to calling inked castles their home.
Know that when I'm absent, I am
peacefully swimming with the papyrus' tides,
or building a fire of hardback covers -
but I will always return when you call me to your side.
I retreat a lot and I don't even mean to; some habits die hard.
Cait Harbs Feb 2017
So much to be said, done, written -

I am far too tired
to make sense of the universe,
of the dark energy in our veins.
I'll just sit here and trace
the constellations of leaves
on the sidewalk
and let the wind blow
the dust off my bones.

I'll just sit here
and practice the art
of breathing,
for there is a certain poetry
in being still long enough
to feel the subtle
undulating of the earth,
the quiet panting
of life.
I'm just going to sit here.
I've been beaten down,
torn apart and ripped to shreds -
I have the war scars to prove it,

I've been knocked down,
broken to pieces and left out in the cold -
I've been trampled and defeated.

Somehow,
I've managed to stay alive -
It's nothing short of a miracle,

I've managed to turn my pain
into poetry--an art -
I've even managed to make it lyrical!

By Lady R.F ©2017
Poetry is my life!
Without it I would be completely lost
In a world I don't fit into.
Cait Harbs Feb 2017
It is not in being heard,
but in having spoken,
in hearing your admissions -
the haunting silence broken.
Cait Harbs Feb 2017
She scraped the splattered soul
from the inside of my bones
and baked a cake for her new lover
with its still-sweet flavor.
There is nothing of me left
but my cynical, cyanide-tainted breath;
I have nothing to cry over, nothing to share,
and no tears left even if I cared.
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