This is not a poem,
it’s a loss of hope.
Art only the escape
from what was,
what is
and what will always be
until all that’s left is
what?
I scatter my childhood,
leave it among the plains,
forget the trail of grazed knees,
praying hands and broken hearts
until all that’s left is
what?
I feel the teeth in my carcass;
always ‘I’;
never the pains of others,
never the loss of tide,
still I wonder why I don’t understand.
This is not a poem,
it’s a loss of answer.
School only the escape
from what is,
what isn’t
and what will never be
until all that’s left is
what?
I listen to you,
and it breaks my heart.
It breaks my heart in places
my words cannot scale.
Just your heartbreak;
over and over, rinse-and-repeat
sorrow in my ears
as I walk through my days.
This is not a poem,
it’s a loss of form.
Temporary I know,
but the world often disarms me,
when I am in most need of
my bow.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 7:50 PM UTC
This is not a poem,
it’s a loss of hope.
Art only the escape
from what was,
what is
and what will always be
until all that’s left is
what?
I scatter my childhood,
leave it among the plains,
forget the trail of grazed knees,
praying hands and broken hearts
until all that’s left is
what?
I feel the teeth in my carcass;
always ‘I’;
never the pains of others,
never the loss of tide,
still I wonder why I don’t understand.
This is not a poem,
it’s a loss of answer.
School only the escape
from what is,
what isn’t
and what will never be
until all that’s left is
what?
I listen to you,
and it breaks my heart.
It breaks my heart in places
my words cannot scale.
Just your heartbreak;
over and over, rinse-and-repeat
sorrow in my ears
as I walk through my days.
This is not a poem,
it’s a loss of form.
Temporary I know,
but the world often disarms me,
when I am in most need of
my bow.
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