Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I have these old grey mitts.
I want to use them to hold your heart.
The are worn and scratchy. But they are warm.
I can’t promise that my care of it won’t leave marks. But they will all be made from a loving touch.
My hands have callouses that run deep. They are cracked like stone.
Your heart deserves a softer touch.
But I only have these old grey mitts.
You heart deserves a birds nest. A place to wait and dream of flying.
Your heart deserves a silk cocoon to rest in until it is fully transformed.
Your heart deserves a heart to sleep in. A beat to match in time.
But I only have these old grey mitts.
I’d like to hold your heart. And if you’d let me, I’d protect it like my own.
For when I saw your heart, I spun my own into yarn of blood and bone and wove it into something soft.
I’d like to hold your heart.
But I have no heart.
I only have these old grey mitts.
Sean Critchfield Nov 2019
The sign said "Danger".
I only saw the river.
I would gladly drown.
Sean Critchfield Nov 2019
Fair warning. I am coming for everything they said I couldn't have.
Sean Critchfield Nov 2019
Schrodinger's Haiku
Everything exists at once
While our eyes are closed.
Sean Critchfield Apr 2019
Whisper it.

Like fingers tracing cotton.
Whisper the gentle scratches of pen on paper. Percussive poetry to punctuate the moments. All written down and tucked in pockets to be read and recited.
Read and forgotten.

But still that single look lingers on.
From across the ceramic mug, hot with sweet tea and fortune telling leaves.
Framed by late morning light.
Wrapped in billows of steam.

I was too young to know then what I know now.

We write our own future.
Sean Critchfield Mar 2019
Distant phantoms that shake my bones and make me wonder at potential.
And potential energy.
As if the things that once were, now  drive the things that are.
Like windmills waving spiral arms
as mad as


The words that play on the back of my eyelids, seldom make it to my mouth.
And if they do, they hide behind my lips. Begging to be read, like braille.
Sean Critchfield Jan 2018
If we are a story, we are a timeless tale.
Weathered pages that smell of dust and vanilla.
Leather spines and oil fingerprint stains on well thumbed pages.
We are timeless.
A story that lasts.
A happy ending.
A myth.
A fable.
Legendary and beautiful.

And you.

You are the Author.
Next page