In the end
are laid out before all
to walk by and see
“that won’t ever be me”.
i wonder, at what age
you became out of my reach;
i wonder, if i even
tried reaching for you
i know that history leaves its mark on everyone
(but not many have been hurt by the tracks
left behind in the dirt
like you have)
you can sit there for days, weeks, months
while we contemplate your fate,
tossing the choices in our hands
you hear the word expendable
mumbled in countless conversations
and wonder, at what age
you became in our reach
you think of the family you left behind
and hope they will find their way to tennessee
to a better life that is
will they miss your selflessness;
your keen, incisive way with words;
the bumps and hills of your rough skin;
the smell of your perfume?
i miss your evergreen smile;
your skin against mine;
the wonder in your eyes
You sit there
In that big chair
Leaning forward in false interest.
Where do the thoughts go?
Away in a box of unsent letters?
Why are there so many letters?
Like an unknown alphabet.
An exotic language,
too hard to interpret.
So much time spent to decipher,
That by the time you do,
The letters lost their meaning,
Lost in translation.
The stars spot the night sky
The moon called you away at night
The trip on which we both embark
I packed up all my pieces
and then I fell apart.
We are two animals trapped inside a glass box
Nothing to say or do that isn't lost inside our thoughts
You hope to find an inkling inside the broken chatterbox
But mostly deny what's inside the two time Goldilocks
Is it too cold, too hot, or just right?
Hit me up on the flip side and I'll keep you lukewarm tonight.
Who's eyes light up your insides like a rotten Jack O'lantern?
Who's argyle style lies in all the wrong patterns?
I'm loose like a cannon or a bad set of tie rods.
You can hear the truth speak when you read it in my scrimshaws.
I'll Tear apart your life like the jaws of life.
Tear you apart like a knife like jaws did Richard Dreyfuss
This guy writes like Jackson ******* drinks
And paints like Charles Bukowski.
His life pours out in lines like the inside of a chocolate factory.
When asked where is his mind he pointed to his heart,
and said to them:
"you shouldn't play with knives when you're dancing in the dark."
I paint your body with my hands
You paint my mind with tattoos that you planted with a needle
What are your plans?
In deep like a sunken ship in the sea
Your deep blue eyes consume me with their secrets
Your Hidden features
You're an angel with her wings clipped
forgot how to fly
Maybe too close to the sun
Maybe too close to someone
Who caused you too much pain
Too much fire for a volatile combustible soul.
When you find me I'll be waiting in the lobby staring at a hole in the wall
feeling half empty
With a half full drink in each hand.