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 Nov 2015 shannon stambaugh
Pax
There are times stillness hums
sometimes, boredom sung.
The longing it create, stung.
“Writing, at its best, is a lonely life.” by Ernest Hemingway
and here i am again
at the intersection
of pedestrian language
& old wives tales
swallowing gum
like 7 year memories
opening umbrellas inside
cause i can't seem get away
from all of this rain
i ******* with my left hand
cause i was told
back in highschool that
"it feels like someone else is doing it"
it gets me wondering
about the difference between
losing you and finding out
that some one else found you
or my sleep
or lack thereof
its starting to tear me apart
i keep having this dream
where you are in
an unfamiliar body of water
trying to wash my poetry
off of your hands
or the one where
something happens in my chest
every time you sit
on someone else's bed
i'm tired of feeling like something you've misplaced
but don't have the heart
to look for anymore
tired of you saying my name
like you're trying to bury it
i'm tired of wondering
if you can tell the difference
between the absence
of my voice & silence
the other day
i almost started sobbing
at work when a woman
asked me about
our equipment
i was explaining how
things come apart
and almost mentioned your name
it made me think
of how you used to say
things like "what would you do
if i showed up on your doorstep
one day?" now, i haunt
the windows in my house
i don't leave for weeks at a time
i sit on the porch like the dog
you didn't shoot behind the shed
the one that refuses to die
until you come home again
i told somebody once, that
you didn't even know
what my voicemail sounded like
i wonder if they thought
it was because you
are so important that i never
let it ring that many times
before picking up
or if you dont know
what it sounds like
because you've never called
you can't be the ****** weapon
and the search party
i'm tired of all the seats
to the ferris wheel in my chest
being empty
tired of your voice
being the one i look for
in abandoned places
that one sound i beg
to bounce back
down vacant hallways
i just seem to stand there
in all of that quiet
like someone looking for a mistake
on an eviction notice
so i guess the hardest part
isn't letting go
it's forgetting
you ever had a grip
in the first place
and since you've been gone
i wonder if when
you pushed yourself away from me
you used your left hand
so it felt like someone else did it
with mouth rich like an oracle dispensing word mysteries
lips ripe and red like the inside of a juicy water melon
eyes like a laser beam searing my conceited heart
she looked my way with demeanor raw and with disdain
and the hurt came sliding into my shredded ego
that fell to the floor in a heap of abandoned intentions
she frowned like a queen on a throne bedecked with silk
and her soft velvet walk was like a bomb in my timid ears
as once more she cast a regal look at the mere human that I was
and again the hurt came sliding in with the writing on the wall
and i knew i was chasing an elusive butterfly in full flight
I tried to fit in
I tried to be responsible
I tried to do what had to be done to make a living
And all the trying brings me to a phone call asking
to let me walk out the most painless way possible
I tried too ******* hard
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