I am tired of writing so much about you
I am tired of seeing how excited your eyes were,
only to find out
that you're gaze wasn't fixed to mine.
Those pair of sad eyes were searching for someone else's face
in a room full of strangers
Today, I am not writing of how sad I was,
but, I am writing the things about you-
How deaf you were
that you cannot hear what my heart was telling you-
of how sad it was,
of how tired it was,
of how numbed and calloused it was.
But now, I am relearning how to wipe my own tears
sometimes writing means remembering
Here’s for your calloused heart,
the one you endured to have,
Here’s for the stories
you can’t tell to anyone,
Here’s for the chances
you didn’t take,
Here’s for the story
that you can never
put to an end.
for that growing chaos
that chose to live
inside your own mind.
the first rain of May
Feet on the ground
Head in the clouds
Eyes always glazed
Rough and calloused
And full of malice
But really just a broken boy
It's hard living in a world where no one cares
While your smothered and shallowed by despair
Sitting here wondering why I was born into this place
Not wanting to be part of this sad human race
Where money is the great and powerful Oz
It doesn't matter what's the cause
I look and see their hearts have grown cold and calloused
Everything is so off balanced
There is no more unconditional love
No loving help from up above
We have been abandoned
The trumpets have sounded
Humanity has been stripped of it's compassion
Empathy is in short ration
Gone are the ways of old
To these values we no longer hold
Now it's I'll do for you, if you can do for me
That's not the way it's supposed to be
But everyone's eyes have been closed
Their souls have become thorny and cold
We are no longer judged on our thoughts and actions
But by how much money we have for the coming attractions
For if we don't have enough to pay
We become part of the play
We are condemned to be the *****
They feed to the machines of war
calloused with the evidence of hard work and pain
strong and thick from carrying the burdens of life
solid and sore from constant stress
sunken and tired
but oh your hands
so soft when they trace my lips
so tender when you hold me
supporting me through every affliction
filled with nothing but love
You were supposed to be there for me
But you really didn't care
I needed you desperately
But you were unaware
I learned to live without you
Calloused to the pain
Now you want to be the hero
I'm sorry, it's far too late
staring out windows
her calloused hand in mine is
all i can think of
i'll never forget how it felt
when i first got close to you.
blueing veins lined your arms
like ridges of mountains across a map,
arching like signs that read "dead end"
along twisted countryside roads.
i expected your hands
to be rough and calloused
to match your soul.
to my surprise,
your skin was soft,
and even radiated
a comfortable warmth.
maybe i was wrong about you
Calloused is defined as having a hardened area of skin.
But I would venture to guess
That if you looked at my heart
And compared it to
My feet and my hands
That my feet and my hands
Would be in better shape.
See manicures and pedicures exist
But regardless of all the wear on my heart.
There's no procedure that can soften it.
Life has taken sandpaper to me.
Marring me through
Missteps in love
And searing loss.
Leaving me hardened,
Which served its purpose,
At least I wouldn't be easily hurt anymore.
I avoided love.
Not out of fear, I'd tell myself,
But because I was done looking for it.
I'd tell people that I was waiting for love to find me.
And so I'm still waiting
From the fear of opening up.
From the fear of softening.
It's hard to be yourself
When you know that
So the callouses come in handy.
Keeping me from pain and hurt.
Actually, I prefer the term hardened to calloused.
Simply for the sake of finding a better connotation.
I'd rather be hardened by my circumstances
Than calloused by them.
I'd rather be hardened by the hurt
Than calloused by it.
And if loss were to strike me in the face again,
I'd rather be hardened,
Instead of calloused.
But if you'd grab a dictionary
You wouldn't be fooled by my attempt,
At clever wordplay.
You'd realize that both are the same,
And that whatever I'd chosen to call myself
I was still as broken as ever.
— The End —