What the fork is going on
We argue all knife long
The table settings a froze
What the fork is going on
Can't we at least spoon
A ladle here, a ladle there
What the fork is going on
We argue all knife long

Logan Robertson

11/30/2018

i wish
i could forget
your zodiac sign
so i wouldn’t have
to read yours
after i read mine.

my eyes
charted the course
of your promising star
across the sky of
my heart

but it faded
died
in the time
you took
to speak

I wanna talk about you
And the things I miss about you
But you see, my pen is broken
And my heart has lost its rhythm
The words are crooked
And the paper is nothing but rejection
But let me just write this down
You were the kind of love
I planted on a flower ***
You were the kind of love I watered with silence
And you were the kind of love
That blossomed from a distance
And you were the kind of love that was just as equally painful
And yet it was also as hauntingly
beautiful.

We cannot write silence.
The beats.
The pause.
The breath.
The way it aches
and persists

and begs that,

if only for a moment,

our consciousness is only a whisper.
our bodies,
our lips,
the air that passes through falling chests
and stillness.

A melody of emotion.
Sleeping in the quiet of a heartbeat skipped
a word lost to the wind.

The wickedness of reticence
Encapsulated in air and time.

The moment stretched too long.
Hesitation perpetuated in the grip of fingernails
pressed into palms.

We cannot write silence,
but we can try.

to find a way to immortalize emotion
to create space
in the ceaseless drone of words that speak and spin.

I cannot write silence. But I can write
tears and years
and the burn of long-stretched lies.

I can write goodbyes and hellos
And dozen ways to say
I love to hate you
Or
I hate to love you
and sometimes
I cannot tell the difference.
Silence.
The space I have upheld for myself.

I love to hate you
Heart.

I hate to love you too.

I cannot write silence.
But I know it.
and I have held it in my hand.

He writes poetry
But no one knows

He writes poetry
He writes about love
And loss

He writes about smiles
And frowns

He writes about sorrow
And forgotten towns

He writes about how lost he gets
Caught up in his own mind

He writes poetry to
And about others

But no one knows

Know one knows the depth of his soul
Because they all choose to see the exterior
And that exterior screams

Preppy
And preppy
Don't have souls

Or so they thought
Until the day he was consumed
By his own poetry

As we sit down to our dinners,
as we open our romance books,
people die.

We sip our water;
their guts spill open.
We study our notes;
their planes crash.

We live;
they die.
We breathe;
they suffocate.

We are testaments to chance,
to luck, to possibility.

We are not products of God.

We are blind goats trotting on our path
before we perish, suddenly,
and vanish into death.