If you saw
yourself
in my lines
then
yes,
that poem
was about
the
fictional
you
in the eyes of a
Writer

“Reach out to people.”
“Talk to them first.”

I do. Then they leave after like 3 texts.
Or they quickly change the subject.
I hate that.
People don’t wanna recognize or talk about the real stuff out here.

The hurt, the pain.

They just don’t wanna talk about it.

But unfortunately, that’s all I am.

write a poem.
its been two long years
and i fear I don't even know what a poem is.
i fear i've never even written one.
i look back at my fleet and
i see forced words
prematurely picked
from their fields.
****** into the arena as dogs
with their tails glued to their thighs.
i fear i have succeeded at preparing
a dish of underdeveloped corpses.

Tough circles
.
are
a piece of cake

Subject

Shortly after our
first date I joked
Don’t make me write a poem about you.

It’s been a year and I laugh
because my poems
have become your home.

It’s been a year and
you’re kissing
someone else and
I’m just kissing people
who aren’t you.

Waking up next to you
for the last time
we knew it was and
we had to tell each other
not to cry so we could
kiss for the last time

When we broke
you said to me
I don’t want to be the subject of one of your poems.

But I warned you.

I stopped writing when....

When I was no longer broken -
unlike before with a heart suffocated
suffocated with feelings left unspoken,
with little things gone complicated.

I stopped writing when...

When I was no longer burdened
with thoughts circling in my head,
and pain excruciating like no end -
snapped my spine through the things you've said.

I stopped writing when...

When I was no longer in love,
When I was no longer suffering the feeling of longing,
When I was no longer...

i think stopped loving you because I can't write about you anymore.*

You don't deserve to be the subject of my writing anymore.

Father, you are the blueprint of my soul,
And though I sense our parting drawing near,
The crucible of death will make us whole.

The day or hour is not ours to control
Yet even strangers read your passing here.
Father, you are the blueprint of my soul.

In paradise's fields I see a knoll
Where, shucked of flesh, we sport without a care,
The crucible of death will make us whole.

As age and weight make diamond from the coal,
So I am fashioned from your smile and tear,
Father, you are the blueprint of my soul.

I will not dread the shedding of my role,
A promise waits beyond the footlights' glare,
The crucible of death will make us whole.

So, father, do not fear to pay the toll,
I am the sun, your shadow I revere.
Father, you are the blueprint of my soul.
The crucible of death will make us whole.