#dusted
Breathe in, breathe out
the pain is all the same.
Faith stained, i'm not the same
Yet people choose to believe in me.
Why?
Meaner, Darker
Could care less about the feelings.
You let the past get in the way,
critique for the way I recover.
So?
Am i void and empty?
Simply because i'm not pretty inside
have I disappointed your old reflection?
I'm actually good. I can't help it if you're tilted.
Before.
bright and bold, Loved by everybody.
Made mistakes that penetrated deep
but now standing before you
redesign, a newer model.
Cold.
Me. You. It's still the same
Hard times, times are troubled
Shield themselves to save the truth
Run. Gun.
Metaphorically.
Strong and confident, in and out
Bare and hallow leaves a mark
With every breath I still hurt
don't toy with it.
I'm done.
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 1:09 AM UTC
She knows that's it.
All done and dusted.
Her father used to say
that: done and dusted,
usually when he done
someone and dusted
off his fists. Dead now;
done and dusted himself.
But Claude, yes, that's
done now. He won't
want her back now he
knows. It was a bit risky
having that young guy
in my bed, but I was
feeling low, and he seemed
a good idea at the time.
Ideas do seem good at
the time. Time has a way
of paying back ill done deeds,
she muses. He hasn't rung.
Hasn't said a thing. His way
of cutting her out, and leaving
her out in the cold. He made
love his goal, well at least
the bedding kind. Had to be
the best bed, the best sheets,
silky and smooth. That time
in the posh place in that big
four poster, and she and him
giving it some, and there was
a knock at the door, and he
bellowed out obscenities, and
the knocking stopped, it
was silent like just before a
bomb is dropped. That's it
now, she muses, no more
Claude, no more bedding in
posh places, no seeing posh
prats or their wives and their
over done and dusted up faces.
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 3:25 AM UTC
The memories fade
The hurt abate
The scars so deep;
The flecks of red
on walls so white.
Sole testimony to the time.
The knowing smiles
The intoxicated wiles
Lie abandoned in the
dustiest attics of our minds
While here I stand
Outside myself
Done and dusted
Weaving tales of a distant time
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 1:49 AM UTC
You left me here.
In this asylum of creativity.
Now you get to see.
My archive of insensitivity.
The world's more simple.
When you color it black.
Hook please.
I could never take you back.
I never wanted this.
But you extracted it forth.
The truth in the lines.
The best thing you ever gave or taught.
To be with me she.
Cheated the love she had grown.
In the end she chose.
Me and her love she had thrown.
You lied to everyone.
Everyone but me.
At least I thought so.
But it just remained to be seen.
When nothing adds up.
What do you believe?
Do you wait it out?
Or just get up and leave.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 1:33 PM UTC