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 Apr 2013 Dillon Kaiser
CE Green
Callow Crooks Cobblestone the name of man
in the sense that there is none to be spoken of anymore.
Catapulted his good graces out of the house to another realm where it's all whispers
of impish names and frozen as Halifax.
You can see the slander in the spumes of breath
Evident as they gallop along
Jumping on crystalline snow flakes.
Flailing, faltering, finally reaching floor too frigid to melt.
 Apr 2013 Dillon Kaiser
CE Green
You on the outside looking inward
at the outward glance of Mike, your youngest.
Bovine hands on bovine meal cutting the table
practically in half if the strength would return to him.
He's only 40, but looks 53
ZZZZZ's hurling out, nodding comatose, veins percolating tangled mess in December.
Chardonnay outlet, and there is as much as you can handle.
We are flowing in generous and dire fashion this evening a florescent turnpike of the county.
Lucky the generators kept the convalescent hospital convulsing and very much awake.
He's nearly dead and for a moment, after leaving your apartment, I could've swore I saw his ghost wandering the B-Side hallway, no shoes on his feet.
A day to remember. I saw you in so many lights,
So many ways.
You found me, in the dark, deep place;
now made brighter.
I love you, I love you,
a shore right beside her.
Again we begin,
as a safe place, a warm rain,
a tender blow, caught up in The Rapture.
I’m more like a flower than a person.
I’m wilting, losing my petals, drying up.
I’m in a vase with others, and they seem to be doing fine.
They are blooming in vibrant shades of pink and red
With proud leaves catching the sun from a window near by.
They let off fragrant fumes to passers by
And everyone stops to look at the gift nature has given.
But then they notice the small dying flower near the back
And think, that should be pruned out
It would improve the over all look of the arrangement.

But maybe I am run away with this metaphor.
I am more like a china doll than a person.
I am fragile, painted, and stationary.
People see me and they know I have no real purpose
I cannot be played with, like other dolls
I cannot be taken around the world as a child’s companion,
I must sit preserved on the safety of a high up shelf.
A toy for children that can never fulfill its purpose
Because to do so would break me.

Or maybe I am more like the old pictures of an ex
The ones you keep hidden under your mattress.
I am only viewed and handled when you are lonely,
When no one else is giving you attention I am your last resort.
But when you look at me you remember why we no longer see each other
Why I am a memory rather than a lover.
I am too much work to be anything other than a smile
One that says things used to be good
But now call for us to be apart

Possibly I am like a song you have heard so many times it makes you sick.
The one you used to love, played over and over when you felt blue,
But eventually you realized my lyrics were contrived
And my message irritating, my beat not that catchy.
When you hear me now you think, ugh, more of this?
You still know all of the words,
You just wish that you didn’t, because my song means nothing to you now.
My beat is a reminder of a phase in your life,
One you don’t wish to revisit.

I could be more like that hamster you got in the 8th grade.
The one that seemed adorable with its fluffy hair and tiny nose,
Until you realized how much work I am,
How our relationship was one sided with all the work falling to you.
Cleaning my cage, feeding me, bathing me,
And doing everything you do for yourself, for me as well.
And it just wasn’t what you signed up for,
So after a few months of boredom you let me die,
And held the little funeral for appearances sake.

I am more like my illness than I am like a real person,
Or at least at times it seems I am to you.
I need more help than most people,
I can’t go out all the time like most people.
I need rest, and need breaks, I need a helping hand
To prevent my body from falling apart.
So I think maybe the metaphors are pointless,
Because you are tired of me complaining
And you aren’t listening to me anymore.
...Love stories are
sometimes written by romantic regrets
Hands used to hold another
and now they are
empty
collecting dust from broken promises
Words were said
drifted and lost
but the memories remain like
a sliver in the backbone
Chained to the thought of
hopefully
once again
Trying to revive the flame
under the rain as the
soul drowns in sorrow
But like shattered mirrors
they can never tell
the same story
again...
Mek
02.14.13
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