If only
I was
able to
open
your
skin,
healing
the wounds
you hold
deep in
you with
the touch
of my
hands,
for now,
I only
possess
these
words,
but, do
you not
see?
even
they are
not enough,
only you
are.

open source

I've three poems to write for Open Mic on Monday night
But where to get the inspiration?
How do I know what will sound right?
I'll have to dig deep to find new words and sentences in my own time
As well as making it matter
and make sense to you
But isn't too preachy whilst stood in the limelight
Something that flows free
And comes naturally
In hindsight
How do I change up the rhymes
But keep my structure and flow tight
What style am I wanting to deliver?
Well, I want to really reach in to memories
From which emotions are triggered
But still keep some sort of restrain
To tame all those scenes you'll envision
Cos that's me at heart
I'm all about subtlety
When using specific words and wisdom as art
But I'm not a master yet
I've still got lots more learning to do
I'm still yearning for you
To give me feedback
So if I talk crap
And it sounds whack
Tell me to stop and rethink
I can always backtrack
Cos I've got a passion for language
Which at times is demanding
When I can't seem to get what I want on a page
I'll sit and think for ages
Even when there's no sunlight
To break through the haze
Only by emptying my thoughts
Can I navigate this inner maze
So let me now share with you
How I've written words in cursives
How I've arranged every word
So these verses feel furnished
Full of purpose
And meaning
That enter your chest
Just off left
So you physically feel
What I'm revealing
Giving life to meaning
And now I've started
I'll finish
Cos I'm fully committed
That's one poem down
2 more left to envisage
I hope you enjoyed this
Simple musing I've written

I'd rather you use bombs and knives,
I'd rather you use guns and swords.
I'd rather that we would have fights;
that you'd leave me with open sores.

I'd rather you find a different weapon,
a different tool to use on me.
I wish you'd make me feel a pain;
I wish you'd leave me weak and ******.

Yet the sharpest tool is what you use;
you leave me dead inside.
I wish you'd tear my heart out;
I wish I would have died.

You open your mouth and the weapons spill out,
you're armed with words that you scream and shout.
The pain is unbearable, the torture indescribable.
I know there's no point in putting up a struggle.

You **** me, one by one,
your words an open ****.
They slice me up in pieces,
making me feel like trash.

All I can be is silent;
I know that is the best.
I try to block them out,
but they're already in my chest.

Your words are killing me;
a slow, antagonizing death.
Each word you say cuts me,
each wound raw and fresh.

I wish you'd let me be,
I wish you'd leave it unsaid.
I guess you just can't see
you can't bring someone back from the dead.

Open wounds are bleeding cuts exposed to the sun
Caused by a knife or a scratch from a run
They are lines on the skin that fade after a while
At least that is what it is in people’s mind files

But sometimes blood is not the only thing that flows
Sometimes tears or numb expressions are the only thing that’s shown
Sometimes they are not simple lines that just fade away
For some they run deep, they are there to stay

Some wounds feel sharp like a knife on skin
But to some those wounds are short moments of relief, heaven
Compared to the wounds inside their head
Telling them that they are worthless, they are better off dead
If people look on the inside they will realize, they will find
Not all open wounds mark the body, they can also mark the mind

the last day of january
has always been so odd to me, darling
you left me there many days ago with a kiss,
and i've been figuring things out alone ever since
killing parts of myself, when i needed you the most

but look how i seized the days, look how i overcame it
i was merely sad and mopping around the city,
weeping over the trails you left on the streets we've walked on
and there were your eyes over the blue skies
asking everyone, was it ever my fault that we didn't work?

and this year, on the last day of january,
i got my new diamonds and rose gold
i merely checked on my work and to-do list
for the weekdays, i planned my february
you called me last saturday, you're drunk

i said i hope you're okay- and you thought i'd never reply
but i'm always weak for you, and it's january
so i check my phone, i hope you call me again to say hi
but i haven't heard from you in a day
i thought you were just drunk and lonely on saturday mornings
and you happened to remember that i've loved you ever since

and so i prowl back on my work, i am a busy young woman
my schedule: talking to teresa tomorrow,
talking to chris after the new year,
and talking to you no longer feels like talking to a person i love
you're more of a total stranger than the coco i know, than teresa, than chris
you just proved me again that you are never right for me, darling

i miss what i thought i had, i miss you the most of all
and it's very lonely to know
that i have been hurting myself than you ever did,
i hope you know this, but you're not capable of it,
my tiger knows no hurting

and i said wake up and get ready, it's the last day of january, darling
the professor is waiting for you at the door.
and i hope you're okay,
and i hope you're doing well in life

I never write love poems.
I think it's because I'm afraid to

open up & feel so vulnerable.
I'd have to look inside my heart,
to write something beautiful,
intimate,
and heartfelt.
I'd have to embrace the warmth,
and reflect on the lingering traces,
of the hand once in mine.
The love that once had it's time.

I'm afraid to confront those feelings.
I'm afraid to commit to love,
even if it's the everlasting type,
where two stars collide,
in the afterlife,
like they did milleniums before.

I've been hurt so deeply.
In ways I haven't felt before.
I'm not sure I can take it anymore.

But I dream of not being afraid of love.
One day,
I'll write love poems.
I'll find the person worth writing lines,
and stanzas about.
One that makes me forget we're in a drought.