Poetry Chose You Over Me

You can’t write poetry with a numb tongue.
You can’t write poetry without a shadow,
of sorrow sleekly strewn across the upper left corner of your heart.

My eyes are doors, while others have doorways.
I can’t quite shake the shaky feeling of emptiness.
Settling faster then the sediment, swept across chlorophyll stippled river beds
by smirk studded salmon.

Im trying to write poetry, but numb is the tongue.
While empty flavor lingers and mingles with a loss of love and pain,
they told me the pain would pass; I would be left with forgetfulness.
In that there is truth, but spotlights shine across the tightly sewn hole;
between my skin and my rib cage,
I’m tempted to scrape, gut, and liquidate,
the empty space, a place
built for pain, built for jubilation.
Never for all consuming emptiness.

You can’t write poetry with a numb tongue.

The faces of peers subconciously come,
into a sleeping but wakeful head.
They wish to scream, to receive permission,
from the social norms to stop,
and breathe.
Inhale einstein,
exhale ******.

They fly beneath the wings of the average,
as not to be seen.
Breaking down has always been easier for the naive.

In one palm I hold green tea,
In one palm I hold a numb tongue.
In swallows I hold the possibility of being free.

Here I lay in a small blanket of colors.
Something so close,
something so distant.
But I know there is wrong,
when the inches of old fabric and layered looped pajama pants
don’t touch, wont touch
the wiggly white winter legs.
Two solid blocks of ice,
forgetting to melt for the pelting sweltering shower drops.
That have all but washed me.

Their consulting, conniving with the tongue so numb.