Oct 2014
I.
one of those days where
the skies cry for you.
when you wake up,
you move like the undead.
your eyes are glued shut.
you look back on when
you fell asleep and compare it to
amnesia.
II.
one of those moments where
you're the kid alone at the lunch table.
you're hiding out in the places
they never think to look,
running from the future
like it's a ***** filthy crook.
you look behind you and hear
pounding sneakers, see the
sepia-tinged flashbacks of mistakes
and regrets.
you're running for a break,
ready to change your luck.
but cells come from cells,
regret begets regret.
III.
one of those days where your bones
shudder and creak.
dragged down like an anchor in the
washed out, raging sea.
you grin because this isn't drowning; it's
the way you smile.
you start seeing visions of a life you could
have had, wanted bad, failed to grab.
it's nice to open your eyes
and not feel the stinging for a while.
IV.
one of those days where
you could have.
could have loved him, could have
belonged, could have hoped.
there might have been an end to the
hangman's rope.
you blocked your shot.
some selfish dreamer with a taste for
masochism shoves the dagger in
your back, and whispers, "what if?"
"what if this is all you've got?"
V.
one of those days where
you have to learn how to write.
you never wrote for anyone else,
never jumped from any great heights.
it always come back to him, every word,
every line and you still sometimes
find yourself convincing yourself that you're
really, really fine.
today, i am trying to find a new salvation
in between these broken rhymes,
trying to create a reason and
trying to try.
VI.**
one of those days
where you have to leap
in order to learn
how to fly.
one of those days where
the skies cry for you.
when you wake up,
you move like the undead.
your eyes are glued shut.
you look back on when
you fell asleep and compare it to
amnesia.
II.
one of those moments where
you're the kid alone at the lunch table.
you're hiding out in the places
they never think to look,
running from the future
like it's a ***** filthy crook.
you look behind you and hear
pounding sneakers, see the
sepia-tinged flashbacks of mistakes
and regrets.
you're running for a break,
ready to change your luck.
but cells come from cells,
regret begets regret.
III.
one of those days where your bones
shudder and creak.
dragged down like an anchor in the
washed out, raging sea.
you grin because this isn't drowning; it's
the way you smile.
you start seeing visions of a life you could
have had, wanted bad, failed to grab.
it's nice to open your eyes
and not feel the stinging for a while.
IV.
one of those days where
you could have.
could have loved him, could have
belonged, could have hoped.
there might have been an end to the
hangman's rope.
you blocked your shot.
some selfish dreamer with a taste for
masochism shoves the dagger in
your back, and whispers, "what if?"
"what if this is all you've got?"
V.
one of those days where
you have to learn how to write.
you never wrote for anyone else,
never jumped from any great heights.
it always come back to him, every word,
every line and you still sometimes
find yourself convincing yourself that you're
really, really fine.
today, i am trying to find a new salvation
in between these broken rhymes,
trying to create a reason and
trying to try.
VI.**
one of those days
where you have to leap
in order to learn
how to fly.
I wrote this a while ago, one of the first poems I did post-hiatus. I'm getting back into the groove much better now, but it takes time. I still have to learn that I need to stop writing for him.
