Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
rayma Aug 2022
i'm watching from inside
a glass case,
the delicate pieces of time immemorial
arranged in displays around me,
layouts they memorize but never really notice.
when someone passes by
the pieces all quiver,
fragile ceramics in a chorus of jingles
trying to catch their attention.
but the sound becomes a part of the backdrop,
like the slightest groan of a floorboard beneath the rug
or the squeak of a cabinet door.
we rattle closer to the edge,
pressing our faces against the glass
to get a glimpse of home:
still-lifes done by a familiar hand,
worn wooden floors that don’t match the rest,
a room that hasn’t been painted in decades.
a few times each year
on special occasions
you open the cabinet door
and let us adorn the dinner table.
and then it’s back to our shelves,
watching from behind the glass,
waiting for a glimpse of home.
Tasman Suitor Oct 2016
In looks on faces
And movie lines
From quiet places
To remembered times

Always I seem to find
I cannot but stop and think of you.

The old ticket stubs
And restaurant meals
Our sporting clubs
And running in heels

Always I seem to feel
I cannot but stop and think of you

The brightest smile
My favourite yet
Every mile
Was worth the debt

Cos since we first proper met
I cannot but stop and think of you
Sam Knaus Nov 2014
You, my friend,
are a broken masterpiece.
You were carved out of shattered glass
and you continually forced your cracks
into mine
like broken heirlooms,
not that I ever had a problem with that,
I jammed my cracks into yours
just as forcefully,
I think my biggest mistake was thinking
that you could fix them.
Your eyes are worn with things
no boy should have seen,
the leather falling from your boots
and your skin is chipping,
with time,
nothing will be left of you but a memory.
What's sad is that
I'm not sure I have a problem with that either.
I gave a total of 2 years of my life
to you
and when I decide to give it to someone else,
you disappear,
not a trace left of you but the blood
that came from your razor while you were gone.
Memories of us peeling from the back of my brain,
conversations rusted over,
you came back and I was so relieved
that I said nothing about the thin red lines that littered your arms
at first.
Then I found out you'd only come back
to get that pack of cigarettes I owed you.
I still wonder what goes through your mind
when you think about me, now.
What's left of your heart is consumed
with the hatred you feel for my boyfriend,
and that shouldn't erode my thoughts
as much as it does
but in the end nothing is left but hurt,
raw and naked and painful.
That's the thing about pain, you see-
it demands to be felt,
but without you I feel strangely free,
like I could spread my snapped wings and fly
through a sky dotted with shining promises
and the haze of a moon that
makes my yellowed teeth and tattered clothing glow
and I don't know if that excites me
or scares the hell out of me,
or both.
Feat. TFIOS, by John Green. "That's the thing about pain; it demands to be felt."
Sam Knaus Oct 2014
Sit back and over-analyse
the lies that you were serving my mind.
Providing a way to relate
and trying not to overcompensate
for my lack of you,
I should have known you’d
***** and moan enough that
in time,
I could make your whines rhyme.
(Maybe that’s why your speaker points
were always the lowest.)
In this debate,
rate my way and rate of diction,
because truth is stranger than fiction
I sigh
cause I’m lying through my teeth
when I say “I’m okay”.
Sit back and wait for
what you think you have to say
We wager away our
bad experiences,
nearing another night of searing
playing make-believe
with a ballpoint pen.
Remember the way all this started
with an oration and the weight
of what came to be a bad break up
make up
break up
wake up
to a world where you two don’t fit together.
Force your cracks into each others’
like broken heirlooms
Shake off the dust,
Can’t shake the thought that you’d be happier
without me.
I can’t see through this cloud of doubt without
an explanation,
an answer to the chance
that I can’t distinguish
the morning dew from her rose petals
that she tried to drown you in
from your tears.
“If this ain’t love
then how do we get out?”
Get out of this mess,
regress back into an obsession
with death,
and destruction,
let me provide some instruction
on obstructing these thoughts
that threaten to consume
what I assume is your last shred
of sanity.

— The End —