Never will he perish
For he'll remain with me
Tarnishing my soul in the wake of his memory
Tangled up in my memories
Constantly blaming me
Incisively

Trenchant is his face within my mind
So hard to disguise or hide my plight
Wishing it was but never will be past-tense
His presence lingers
Pulling at my resistance
So persistent

The knots wrap tightly to my wrist
Bound to the same grounds
The thoughts place this as they manifest
Repetitious history
Evoking inevitability

I wish the tears could cleanse and mend
The taste of blood is too metallic for my pallet
As I descend bitterness fades leaving disgrace
I am not to blame but I bare the shame
However I cant regret knowing his name

I see people writing poem after poem on here,
and i wonder,
did you write them all by candlelight, and save them up for when you found your audience?
Or did you sit and get drunk and write them whilst smoking cigarettes, and crying,
all over the keyboard.
Or was it a carefully, logically, formatted feeling that you had to edit, to, get, it just, right?
Aaahaaa...
I wonder if you know what you are saying.
If you know that your infinitesimal pieces of work, are akin to a 16yr old's journal from circa 1984?
That if you could read it from this angle, or that angle, it could mean one or two things, and i am sure that you meant neither of them.
And i am thinking, that if i could i would throw away the internet and its black hole, that we all get ****** into,
I would give you one gold plated pen with black writing ink,
and a limited supply of scrolls of parchment made by sunlight and cotton;
because i wonder whether you would be so flippant with your words,
your feelings,
your punches,
your understanding,
your emotions,
your reflection,
your heart.
Because this makes us quicker, faster, harder, stronger.;
holding out for a white page to fill with words,
for lightening bolts of appreciation.
Is this not the cycle you wish to escape my love?
Was this not what you wanted?
Did you not want him to walk away?
Did you not want her to cheat?
Did you want them to fight, see you more clearly, understand you better, expect a little bit more respect, demand a little bit more attention, more patience, loving acceptance, a mutual respect?
What are you doing with these words, that you throw down like a gauntlet?!
Like you throw down venomous poison that you are trying to rid from your body, out from your curs-ed mouth, through your fingers, on to a keyboard, and out in to a a-nomy-nous world.
I wonder if you think of these things as you listen to love songs, driving in the rain, in the dark, suffocating on tears?
Do they fester in your head all day as you serve self-righteous morons who have no idea of your tortuous pain?
Do you lightly tread, whilst someone is sleeping in your bed, to the keyboard and type out how much you love them, and how much you are in love, alone, to the monitor, to nameless faces.
Do you have a soap box? Have you hammered on the desk in the rising light of your passion and dignity, and justice for all, in the name of love?
Have you wrote a letter lately?
When was the last time you held a pen for more than a few seconds?
When was the last time you cried into the ink, sprayed it with perfume, or S.I.W.A.L.K?
Or told someone you loved them with a million reasons why, with your own voice, into their eyes, to their face?

I just wonder, how much these words are worth, if we don't say them,
out loud.

She brings me morning coffee and tissues
(Tissues, ostensibly a coaster)
for she knowing.

Poetry,
I am writing,
needing then,
to wipe up
the spilling
tears.


PostScript:
Which of the mysteries within this poem
need answers?
All or None.

I once met a man who read my bellybutton.
He told me that the two horizontal lines
meant I have internal and external insecurities.
I scoffed at the idea that those things
could disappear from mortal souls.
He then pointed to the bottom vertical line,
the most noticeable,
and told me
that meant
my biggest insecurity was my reproductive organs.

I smiled small.
Should I tell him about the dead baby
or instead of the riley women who have male dependency.
I chose the latter,
for Im not sure if the kid is still dead.
I could hear her screams in late night alleys for two years after.
She haunts my horror dreams,
singing we could have lived happily ever after.

Instead, Ill chose the story of my stepfather
who called me a *****
and cried to my mother
that I was trying to ****** him with training bras and black eye liner.

'Did he hurt you?'
'of course,
but so did my mother-
and I've learned to forgive those
who chose life over freedom.'

It's more than I've done.