I wasn't the one, you weren't alone,
You were just in need of a friend.
But I was there when you needed
someone to listen, I wasn't your
friend but unbiased ears never
            tell you false lies..

I'll tell you what you don't want to hear.

I'm car when you crossed the road,
         hit and run on your road
of potholed truths that others
                                         filled in.


I wasn't a friend, you weren't alone,
you were just in need of a voice.
But I was there when you needed
someone's truth. I wasn't your
friend we'd only just met.
      
I'll tell you what you don't want to hear.

I'm the car when you crossed the road,
         hit and run on your tarmac
of potholed truths that others
                                         filled in.
With false gratitude cos they charged
you for the air they filled you with.

I was a friend, new off the press no secrets
    no lies to hold back. filling you with
the honesty you had missed.
           Not your bestie, just a new face
in your reflection with no need to be

                              two faced....

.
There’s an ancient duct tape patched
roller suitcase still up in the attic,
scarred by sky miles and undiscerning
indifference;  it came to rest like a final breath
exhaled at the end of the long road ―

In the dusty rafters of silent repose  
the death of an alter-ego comes to life
and jars and jogs the  sleeping dogs 
that lay benign as a pothole riddled road

Holding onto memories buried alive,
hidden away remembered ― 
      sans wings to fly away
laid bare unweighed with the weight
of everything else garnered and saved
      subsisting in a shallow grave;
hoarded and hidden away breathing
locked up with the other baggage borne
       behind tired eyes

Feeling the ache of blood stained knees
falling down sullied at the side of the road
Hindsight and a roll of duct taped memories
linger;   stuck to the  grey bandage scars,
second guessing should have thrown out
with the permanently temporary
fading plasticized luggage name-tags
back when I was still close enough to care;
too many miles to reconsider  ago

Some say: "it's the journey not the destination"                                    .
Some day when its too late we'll know
Some day it will be too late to make amends
        for everything i could not be ...


           harlon rivers ... 07  06  2018

the rain drowns the city's noise,
all you can hear is the storm knocking on your door.
potholes filled with muddy water,
traffic officers standing without umbrellas.
the poor stand outside and wonder
if they'll get some sleep tonight.
the rich pose for another picture
with a fake smile.
commuters cursing the rain gods and the government
for not using their taxes to fill holes with more cement.
the storm has been knocking on our doors
we've been too busy to answer it's call
but now it has let itself go
and the city has drowned before dawn.

All I can remember is that time in Wal-Mart
when your older sister came to me and asked:
“Is it true that Payton went to the ****** bin?”

I wonder where she heard that lie and how many
more were threaded among Honesdale locals,
weaved into their perceptions of my family--

their shoulders betrayed them when they turned
away as if we were the diseased ones rotting
inside-out--maybe we were, in a way--but at least

swallowing all this salt healed our wounds
faster than your actions would fade from memory.
I punched you the day I found out even as you

scoffed, laughed, you hadn’t ever taken me seriously.
At 17, I had learned not many people would--but
my revenge came after I moved three hours south,

when your father died of cancer, your best friend
crashed your mother’s car, your sister fled
all the way to England to escape the mistakes

eating at her shadow, and I got out of our hellish
town. You became rooted among manure, ***-
holes too deep to outgrow--I’m sure you’re choking

on worms by now. And when I finally reach
the lofty sky, I’ll hold the sun between green hands.
I’ll hide its light and warmth from you.

If we are supposed to take the road least traveled, then, why does mine have so many **** potholes?