Young heart
Trying to fix a mechanical monotonous machine
It’s rusted
But the gears keep turning
Getting it through the tunnels
Blinded by flashes
Plastered on the face of every magazine

The masks move closer
Close your eyes tight
Don’t give them the satisfaction
They can’t shatter your shattered heart

She’s perfect.
It’s plastic.
Just tragic.
You crave her victory;
The affection of faceless strangers staring
On the other side of the glass
Snow white shackles
But it’s written on your grave

You think you’re in control
But you’re walking on a bed of nails
They’re pulling your strings, Puppet
If you fall from the tightrope you’ll disappear into emptiness

And the fear of ripped up teddy bears
Rejected to the shelf
It’s too much to bear

The possibility that what you want is a shadow you’ll never catch
You’re eyes, plastic immersed in porcelain
You’re falling apart at the seams
And no one seems to care enough to stitch you back together
You’ve forgotten how to smile
And pushed away those who used to care
Told them to stay out of your business

You’re drinking arsenic
Walking a narrow path with no doors
And every step forward erases another piece of you

The clock drips by
never asking
why you’re waiting
just mocking
as the hands
draw
idly by
listening
to the shivers
and the sighs
three hours
have passed
each moment
I prayed
they would last
and stretch across eternity
to exist in perpetuity.
The anticipation
drags by
it’s always worse
when you’re high
where each touch
is just all too much
there’s no time
to serenade
when you’re holding a grenade
between shaking thighs.

If I could turn back time
I would hit Backspace all day,
Id put on Caps Lock
and SHOUT what I say.

I'd use the whole Alphabet
To tell you hello,
Press seven Numbers
Til you picked up the phone.

I'd Tab through the comments
I didn't want to hear,
And use the Arrow Keys
To drag your body near.

I would Delete the harsh words
I didn't mean to speak,
And Insert the "I love yous"
I before couldn't leak.

I would use Ctrl to
Keep reigns over my heart,
And I would Escape lies
That tore us apart.

I'd Print out your photo
And kiss it goodnight,
Use the Calculator
To check that we were right.

I'd Paint you a picture
of us, you and me,
Then I'd hit Enter
Just so you would see.

Those are the things
I would do in my strife,
If only Backspace
worked in real life.

they sit
anxious,
attitudinal,
replete in
hospital gowns,
almost glowing,
angelic in their
whiteness.

below the knee,
the young queen
bee wears peach
fuzz.

my own grasshopper
has a forest of leg hair.

(puberty' s gift)

they look
at one another
not quite
like two strangers
at a singles bar,
but almost.

the moment dies
seconds after birth.

they transition from
insects,
scrawny, gangly teenagers;
becoming hawks.

now,
they perch,
staring at one another,
eyes full of defiance.

each one measuring
the other's plight
against their own.

inspections concluded,
they retreat,
separately,
each
back into their
own fauna of
electronic isolationism.

*

-JBClaywell

what
blooms
a
canary yellow
when
the
heart is
a
long spring