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 Mar 2012 Chelsea Chapman
C A
A Poem
 Mar 2012 Chelsea Chapman
C A
Words on top of a paper, floating
there so bare, naked
Telling the inside of my heart
So honest
there so bare, ****
Alive, dancing inside the minds of strangers
Speaking
there so bare, unarmed
Things I want you to know are so hard to speak
Blinking away from tear stained eyes
Biting my trembling lip
All to say what I need to say

I can't look at your beautiful face
It is beautiful
I can't look knowing you have to leave me
I can't look at my love when it'll be gone

Like a knife in the heart
Wedged deep inside
Twisting the blade
As I watch you leave

Anticipating this moment
The moment when I have to see you walk out my door
I don't know if...
I can't...

It hurts to think that this is coming to an end
But, it must...
You must leave...
And I must stay...



Oh, but, my love...
How I wish we could stay near.
This clock of ours
                                                            ­                               is hidden under ice,
                                      its hands frozen at 2.45.

                     We can hack away at the surface
    to get to him, but he might never
                                                           ­      work again.

                                                         ­                                                        Can you remember how he got there?
                                                      Some­one must have lost track of time
                                                            ­           and dropped him down.

    We can see its large black face
                                                           blurry from where we stand on
                                                              ­                                                                 fragile sheets of aqua ice.

                                                           ­     Maybe when it melts we can save him,
                       move the hands to the right time
                                 but by the time we've done that

                                                           ­                              it'll be the wrong time again,
                                       our hands will have to keep moving
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                    the hands of time

   and the clock won't like that,
                                                           ­            we'll be taking over its job.

He'll become angry and make time
                                                            ­                            go faster until we realise
it's all gone.
Written: March 2012.
Explanation: Another poem written in my own time.

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