"erasers" poems
I want to beat you to death with a blunt object.
I want to grab one of those high-end fashion mannequins by the ankles and bash your ribcage in.
I want to sharpen fifty pencils, bind them with a rubber band, stick the lead ends in your mouth, and punch the erasers.
I want to strap you to a bed of nails and then strap that bed of nails to the hood of my car so I can watch you suffer as we drive over speed bumps in a mall parking lot during an earthquake.
I want to burn your dog in front of you, mix his ashes with gunpowder, melt his bone-shaped name tag into a small metal ball, load it all into a musket, and shoot you in the face with him.
I want you to somehow survive a terrible car crash and then somehow not survive a small fender ****** on the way back from the hospital.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
I want to beat you to death with a blunt object
I want to get one of those high end fashion mannequins grab them by the ankles and bash your ribcage in
I want to sharpen 5 pencils, bind them with a rubber band, put them in your mouth and punch the erasers
I want to strap you to a bead of nails then strap that bed of nails to the hood of my car so I can watch you suffer as we drive over speed bumps on a mall parking lot during an earthquake
I want you to somehow survive a terrible car crash and somehow not survive a small fender ****** on the way back from the hospital
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 5:11 AM UTC
Soon, the masterpiece will come.
Shh, soon you’ll fall asleep,
And maybe in your dreams discover
Words and lines to keep.
For the darkness is a tunnel
Straight to Heaven’s door,
There a thousand poets wait for you -
A thousand gone before,
Before their works were finished,
Before their jobs were through
Now creation of the masterpiece
Is solely up to you.
Hear their spirit, poet!
Listen very close.
You’ve been chosen as the protégé
But do not brag or boast
For the masterpiece consumes you,
Like hell-fire, burns you up,
Leaves you thirsting for some water
And reaching for a cup,
That crumbles when you grab it.
While the water turns to dust,
But still you keep on reaching, reaching,
You must, you must, you must.
Feel their breath, oh poet!
Cool upon your skin,
Though sweat and perspiration
Reveal the torment trapped within.
For the masterpiece consumes you,
Like a pen that’s out of ink,
Leaves you reaching for a pencil,
And needing time to think,
But both ends are erasers
Now your passion turned to lust
So still you keep on reaching, reaching,
You must, you must, you must.
For the darkness is a tunnel
A tunnel straight to Hell
There a thousand poets wait for you -
At a long abandoned well,
Before their works were finished,
The waters all ran dry
There will be no masterpiece
If all the poets die.
Shh, soon the masterpiece will come.
Shh, soon you’ll fall asleep,
And a thousand poets after you
Will search for words and lines to keep.
Phil Lindsey 6/9/15
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 8:45 AM UTC
Today,
I washed my sneakers
With a Mr. Clean
Magic Eraser.
With it,
I erased the evidence
Of where my treads
Had led me.
Mud cleared from
Inbetween the grains
On the soles of my shoes,
I feel lighter.
With a blank canvas
On which
To write tomorrow's story,
Tonight I spraypaint my sneakers black.
Magic Erasers Are ******* Expensive.
May 26, 2010
May 26, 2010 at 5:07 PM UTC
Take me back to the night we met
When the day was hot
And the air was humid
The sky was crisp
And the clouds were nonexistent
Our skin spotted with sweat
My life was sprawled out in front of us both
My emotions were high
But you didn't care
You listened to it all
Stories
Memories
About my family
About my friends
About my random little trinkets
Things that meant nothing to you
And everything to me
You listened to it all
Take me back to that night
When we cleaned sticky **** off the wall
With Magic Erasers and Goo Gone
When we did nine loads of laundry
And you saw all the underwear I own
But you still didn't care
The air was silent
But we filled it with our voices
With laughter
With nervous excitement
Coming from the first date
Take me back to that night
When I first fell in love
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 3:39 PM UTC
I wish the world
banana seats and ***** bars
chariots of childhood
transports to imaginary kingdoms
erasers of boundaries
freedom makers
brother bonders
vehicles of the delegates of peace
a better way.
Bolted to a heavy metal frame of
metallic green with
ape hanger handlebars
the playing cards clothes-pinned in spokes
making siren noises with our mouths
rope-lashed weapons aboard
discovering creeks
woods
forbidden backyards and
never-before-known games with
barn side lumber and pop cans
double-dog daring inedible things
teasing girls
riding to secret clubhouse meetings and
the playground.
I wish the world
our playground
summers of innocence
bottomless wells of laughter
center of the universe
June to September
ages 8 to 18
bean bags and ringers
tether ball - hand and paddle
basketball and baseball and
box hockey
(where it was encouraged
to give children axe handles and
a softball
to beat through holes
in a 2 x 6 board
defending a goal
with their life and
busted knuckles).
We liked it that way.
We lived as legends.
I wish the world
a bike ride with friends
ending at the playground.
For there has never been a bad day
on a banana seat.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
for AR and Maria, oh heck,
for The Crew
**A dog ear is a phrase that refers to the folded down corner of a book page, a dog ear can serve as a bookmark.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dog_ears**
~~~~~~
we fold a page corner down,
here we pause in this poetry book,
for now, a marker of incompletion,
or not
a passage, a phrase,
whole stands on its own,
but today crew,
slated for an exit,
a return-to-someday,
but aside, aside, discarded till...
*all on that day
run to the mountain,
the mountain wont hide you
run to the sea,
the sea will not have you
and run to your grave,
your grave will not hold you
all on that day*
so I, sinnerman,
injured my book,
I hurt that page
disgraced, act of disgraceful,
but
I am injured
and don't have no cares
but come the day of
return
the day I hope to must to believe in,
twice as much,
all on that day,
when the sea,
the mountains,
and the risen dead,
have me back,
to my proper place
even though
will be dog tired,
to that dog-eared page,
in that worn old notebook
return,
pick up
my sticks,
my pens,
that have no erasers,
start again
just where I know,
just when I don't,
but this why I know,
but to that dog-eared return,
the page where
I died,
I shall return,
all on that day
~~~~~~~~~~
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to all on that day?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to all on that day?
Run to the moon, "Moon, won't you hide me?"
Run to the sea, "Sea, won't you hide me?"
Run to the sun, "Sun, won't you hide me all on that day?"
Lord said, "Sinner man, moon'll be a bleeding"
Lord said, "Sinner man, sea'll be a sinking"
Lord said, "Sinner man, sun'll be a freezing all on that day"
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to all on that day?
Run to the Lord, "Lord, won't You hide me?"
Run to the Lord, "Lord, won't You hide me?"
Run, run, "Lord, won't You hide me all on that day?"
Lord said, "Sinner man, you should've been a praying"
Lord said, "Sinner man, should've been a praying"
Lord said, "Sinner man, should've been a praying all on that day"
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to all on that day?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to all on that day?
www.youtube.com/watch?v=H4h55nVbt4c
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
Stored up enough,
but the energy now takes on its
own purpose.
If only I could draw;
I'd create picture books
on exactly what the ending looks like.
Rough sketches left collecting
for many months,
before I ever once thought of putting
color to them.
The why, would be as mind trancing
as tracing catch phrases into the many
levels of dust accumulated.
I'd write something so cliché, like,
"With this oily finger I remove the collection of time."
or, "With this flesh ensconced utensil, I cut
through time."
I'll think myself so clever, that I'd forget
where I left off, and distract myself
again with writing.
A small recluse emotion of mine
objects viciously, but my attention to every
words incentive laced meaning would
leave the visual to again rest unchanged,
not colored.
So's the plight of one who likes to think
himself an artist. There's that scandalous
narcissist again just waiting to ****** you up,
reminding you just how beautiful your words
are, and how small in intellect those who
don't get it are.
Upon that shelf your pictures sit.
I can only write as a narrator,
because our "philosopher,"
"philanthropist of word volley, our
genius of word play,"
is once again too caught up in the
descriptors to finish the real
picture.
Not that this idea will stand the
test of time, but I do believe more
writers will commit suicide, selfishly
of course.
Oh, the tragedy, the malady of writing
so enigmatically that no one gets
your "deep soul."
While upon that shelf,
within a fiber of your overrun
writer's ego, there's a drawing begging
to be finished, colored, maybe even
shared.
But just where does it reside?
Did the alternate you place it
in plain sight, simply so it wouldn't be found?
If it's too early it just can't be worth it,
can it?
He'll have to learn to put down the pen,
rid himself of the whiteout, the erasers,
set up an easel, squeeze out some paint,
and realize there are other mediums
where there aren't mistakes, misinterpretations.
Only perfect imagery through wispy wrist,
sweeping arm, no words, images
are now your letter blocks to construct with.
Brushes, and all manners of paint your pen.
Stop being so foolish "Writer man,"
if your ego clings too sharply to words,
simply remind it,
"This could be another pen name."
"...I love that idea, what would it be?"
"Narcissist Ugly."
"So caught up, I forget I'm tethered to nothing, but doubt."
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
You don't have to remind me to listen to three AM school-night words that come out in the soft whispers you've been waiting to share with me in an attempt to shield it from the rest of the world
I'll remember the things you didn't say like engraved textbook lessons
when my skin starts to dampen and stick to my body like a raincoat
my head hits the wood desk so loud everyone stops pretending to pay attention
and i have to write
"he doesn't love me anymore" one hundred times on the chalkboard
and bang the parts of my past i wake up forgetting together
watching the chalk dust from the day my mother told me; they almost lost you fall to the floor
Every negative hallway interaction bubbles over in an abandonment issue chemical reaction
and I had to drop chemistry because I found none of the connections and formulas could fix the imbalance I carry around with me like i shouldn't be failing Psychology 101.
Maybe I'm clueless because I can't tell you why weather changes or square roots of negatives
But I can recite the lisence plate of the car my dad has never visited me in
and my sisters contact information for the 4 minute and 57 second call i can pay $6.43 to make to sit on the floor and learn about juvenile detention while history notes offer me cold faux-sympathy
Maybe I'm clueless because id rather memorize the way your hand moves down my back than the quadratic formula
and give up on poetry mid sentence
and change "moves" to "moved" because it's all in past-tense and the difference between present and present perfect and banging erasers and not sleeping and
forgetting how to function off of autopilot mode
and
there are lessons I will remember that won't come from staring at a projector screen
when to stop talking
how to look like you weren't just sobbing in the bathroom
the unwritten "give a stranger a ****** if they ask" rule
I'll remember every word you tell me like the test is next period and I'll study every syllable and drown in iambic pentameter
and I'll still fail
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 3:51 PM UTC
Breathe in loads
of innumerable blades
of memory erasers.
Ah, the feeling
of being lost within
your own thought.
Wishing for just
a brief break— from time
and its fast pace (or
if possible, let it
stop. Let the world
stop).
There are familiar places
you can’t get used to
and sometimes
it will all just fade
with experience,
lessons, and
your most beautiful
mistake.
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 10:25 AM UTC
The first time I learned what *** was, I was 10. My parents didn't even have "the talk". No. I found out from a boy, grinning as he rubbed his erasers together. I asked my mom, "Mom, what's *** and because *** IS SOMETHING I SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF, she said something like "You're to young". TOO YOUNG TO KNOW HOW LIFE IS CREATED?! And let's not forget the time I learned what gay meant I thought it was a bad word. The word my classmates laughed at and called each other. I watched my first Modern Family episode in the third grade, my closed minded comments spilled out and increasing got more homophobic as I watched my fathers laugh feed into my immaturity. Looking back, I'm disgusted. I was a candle, dim but had the potential to light the dark room, surrounding me. I just hadn't been light yet. The time I realized I was a feminist i was twelve. So eager to please and maintain my perfect child persona, that being told my "bra strap showing was disgusting" I cried my way through pre algebra. To ashamed to tell my friends or family. LIKE YES. I HAVE **** UNDER MY SHIRT IS THAT A ******* PROBLEM?!All I could think of was how my MALE ASSISTANT ******* PRINCIPAL CALLED ME OUT AND ISOLATED ME ALONE, MAKING ME FEEL ASHAMED OF MY BODY AND MY GENDER! I shouldn't have felt ashamed of sexuality **** I shouldn't have felt ashamed of my gender. NOBODY SHOULD EVER FEEL ASHAMED OF THEMSELVES. Here's a letter to past, present, and future self, and to all those little girls who were raised to be closed minded and ashamed, YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL, EVERYONE IS WORTH LOVE, YOUR BODY IS NOT HERE FOR MALES TO GAUG AT. YOU ARE MORE THAN A *** ITEM, AND IF A MAN EVER MAKES YOU FEEL ASHAMED OF WHO YOU ARE, KICK HIM IN THE ***** FLICK HIM OFF, AND WALK AWAY. BECAUSE HONEY, US WOMEN ARE BETTER THAN THAT ****
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC
It is a summer evening.
The yellow moths sag
against the locked screens
and the faded curtains
**** over the window sills
and from another building
a goat calls in his dreams.
This is the TV parlor
in the best ward at Bedlam.
The night nurse is passing
out the evening pills.
She walks on two erasers,
padding by us one by one.
MY sleeping pill is white.
It is a splendid pearl;
it floats me out of myself,
my stung skin as alien
as a loose bolt of cloth.
I will ignore the bed.
I am linen on a shelf.
Let the others moan in secret;
let each lost butterfly
go home. Old woolen head,
take me like a yellow moth
while the goat calls hush-
a-bye.
2k
I want,
to follow
the erasers I lost,
long ago.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 1:53 AM UTC
Three children sit behind a dumpster
outside of the Pier Pizza Parlor
unaware that they are children
Seven years later walking past Bridge Square
a girl remembers
**** we're out of cigarettes
and my mom's fucken car is locked. man.
and joints rolled with single ply toilet paper
burning through precious *** in the seaside woods where Indians
used to die
She, curling hands,
flattens a photograph of three kids in swimsuits and baseball caps
crouched under the rainy eaves of a waterslide
lighting a one hitter and gazing at their tiny dying world
now like a centerfold
it's covered in lubricant sweat and spittle
after too much time under the wrong beds
She sits on this small fountain
wistfully blinking and ******* down the cigarettes she wishes she could lock back up
kneading her dead legs and wondering
if it's better to have a past smudged by erasers
or mottled with bruises
May 30, 2010
May 30, 2010 at 10:58 PM UTC
That big, pink eraser you see?
I wish it were a hundred times grander
So I could erase all the days
All the wasted months of my life.
I'd be capable of erasing every individual day since I was born.
No,
I take that back...
I'd drop the eraser when I hit November 25th of this year.
That was the day you told me yes
Hidden under ***** and heaps of paper
Lay that rounded eraser,
Smeared with numbers and photos.
Something I thought would never happen did
And an enormous switch on the creases in my brain flipped on
My heart went through the clouds for the first time ever
It'll never go back down to that eraser...
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 4:06 PM UTC
Get a tailor.
If speeches are edited, so should your clothes.
Suits shouldn’t be as big as your dreams.
Marry and be miserable;
or stay a bachelor and
bite the bullet at the ballot box.
Don’t love your mistresses.
Never let a mistress fall in love with you.
Cultivate coldness over glass of sweet tea
and write your principles in pencil,
but keep erasers handy.
Lead gets heavy with idealism.
Cover your tracks with charm,
but keep track of your steps.
Push down ladders as you climb them.
Finally, when you see your reflection in the gloss of your desk
and feel the smooth curves of your cherry bookshelves,
remember that under that finish are the remnants
of what once stood tall and proud.
A glossy exterior can only hope to mask a wild past.
And when you tire of tamed marble;
seeing yourself reflected in nature cut and polished,
come to the sea.
Cast off your leather shoes
– those casualties of your closet –
Roll your suit pants.
Stand firm and absolute.
You, the blond, bright-eyed pilgrim–
camouflaged in slate suits and
ties that hang like nooses.
Love the biting wind as it tousles your hair.
The coldness that demands to be felt.
Let it break like the surf, through your suit
and note the driftwood as it crashes to shore.
So smooth and strange.
A product of its past,
perfect in its imperfection.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
The Surgeon with his highly trained skills~carefully prepares the area into which he will be Entering and Exiting. He does not enter the freeway from the feeder street, without first looking to check , to see if the way is clear or if there may be an Oncoming Danger. He does not go down the Dark Basement Stairs~without first turning on the light ~to make sure the steps are clear~ and exactly where he should place his very next step. He does not stick his hand in the mouth of the Alligator~unless he knows the jaws are properly secured. IF Man is so Aware of these Danger Signs~what is it that makes him so Unsure about tomorrow ? And what is IT that makes another man~so sure about tomorrow ? Which are the greater fears~the ones seen or the ones Unseen ? Per chance the problem lies in the fact~ Man doesn't know for Sure~whom to ask ! Has mankind asked the wrong questions~ to the the wrong people ? OR~does any other man~hold the correct answers ? Why is it~the salve rubbed on early in the morning~usually wears off by noon ? Man has tried to make Erasers for his fears~but as we scrub harder and harder with ~Man made Erasers~! WE finally rub a Hole in the Paper ! So~what to do with the hole ? Start all over~on a new clean sheet~with even more erasers~as fears and errors~mount by the day. As Man approaches his last sheet~erased and crumbled to the finest of powders . Spelling out ~ "WHO TO TURN TO " .
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 6:48 AM UTC
Extraordinary eggs eat elephants' empanadas
exact erasers enlist every eagle
earlobe extract exit each elf entrance
Evil envelopes e-mail England
Easy eccentrics etcetera etcetera
exiting end!
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 4:16 PM UTC
as my head pounds,
and tears streamed down my face,
i wish that i could erase you,
permanently- out from my life.
i wish i could erase you,
like when people erase something
with an eraser.
i wish it’s as easy as that.
and i wish i could erase you,
like when people erase something
with a correction tape.
i think i’d be better off without you.
but no matter how much i tried,
forgetting you, and vanishing you-
you’d still be here,
somehow.
i hate it.
but, erasers and correction tape,
left marks, right?
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 6:19 AM UTC
We just have a few months to go
a few more juvenile fights to handle
a few more days of sneaking out of the class
and for the first time
I don't want the bell to ring early
As each second passes
the dress seems to crease
the dust settles
layer by layer
fighting its way through
it's the last time I'd wear my favorite clothes
The pencils start to shorten
erasers still get stolen
those notebooks still have our chats
the green board carries your creativity
benches would be my favorite mini bed
I promised myself
as I lay my hands on it
My hippocampus reached near to full
lacrimal glands prepare itself
tongue waiting to utter words I never spoke
one last time
salivary glands would miss it recess job
coming from the ground
after playing in the sun
sudoriferous glands loved those strokes of light
I could hear the radiating, chirpy , & shuddering voices
coming from the corridor
happy faces, sad faces, frowned faces,crying faces
promising each other to stay in touch -
half lies
the emotional fools who believed it
I remember crying on my first day
as soon as I stepped
I felt like running away
who knew this would become my favorite destination?
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
My pens and pencils neatly arranged.
From largest to smallest.
From shortest to tallest.
My markers perfectly aligned.
ROYGBIV.
Red
Orange
Yellow
Green
Blue
Indigo
Violet
Rule to live by.
In order of the Rainbow.
Aesthetically pleasing.
Perfect.
My erasers meticulously stacked.
widest to thinnest.
My pencil case empty.
The teacher approaches the board.
I grab a number two pencil from the small end.
(get the weak out of the way)
I am ready to go.
Ready for action.
Prepared for anything and everything.
James comes up to my desk, grabs it with two hands and shakes it.
My masterpiece crashes to the ground.
I was not prepared for that.
He laughs.
I cry.
Whaddya have to do that for?
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 12:52 PM UTC
I was recently told that writing makes the reader more empathetic. Not very often are first impressions based off the magical machinations of the inner mind; rather, these impressions are superficial and surface deep. So here I am placing pen to paper, gliding the still drying ink across the smooth college-ruled lines, hoping another portal is opened, hoping that maybe someone will look beyond the surface into my multi-faceted universe where my true self lies. But what if I'm not entirely sure what completely lies in that realm? The portal is dark, deep, and damp, and my pen lacks the source of light needed to peer through to the tunnel’s end. Every drip of ink to touch the moleskin deepens the portal further into the tunnel-like abyss, like the never-ending layers of an onion, or the timid, velvety petals of a rosebud that's anxious to open itself entirely, petal by petal, with each needle sharp thorn acting as its guardian. Writing to gain the reader’s empathy is a form of vulnerability, telling even your most uncomfortable truths. There’s more to me that I have yet to find, but with each drip of ink, I regret nothing. Pens don’t have erasers. Every stroke is permanent. Why should I desire the empathy of others? So take the odiferous onion, or the irresolute rosebud that I am, because although I’ve captured your attention in so few words, this writing won’t promise your empathy.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
I mourn not for the silent voices
whom hide behind practiced smiles,
but rather for the weeping authors
of anonymous autobiographies
where pages smudge and smear
by worn, overused erasers.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 1:40 AM UTC
I have a broken mirror
in my pocket
I carry it with me
wherever I go
(the shards cut through my jeans, stab my thigh
dyeing my pants red)
I have tried to take it
out, pick
the pieces
out of there
(it's easier to just leave it.)
I end up with only ******
fingertips, I smear my
blood on the rugs
I sleep on,
the bed is too soft, too warm
to sleep in
I'm not used to kindness
or- - - - - even
liking someone
so I become
scared, that things won't
work out
and when you try to pick these
shards out of my leg,
(turning your beautiful
fingers red&raw;)
when you try helplessly
to erase my pain
I will lay on this blood-
stained
rug and think
Why are you doing
this
for me
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 7:45 PM UTC
A few years ago
I was a oddball
and it wasn't cool
to like twilight
or have your uniform
tucked into your skit
it wasn't cool
to have erasers
shaped like hello kitty
in the ninth grade
I was an oddball
but I wasn't alone
I had a friend
my best friend
and she was important
I was an oddball
and I wasn't able to notice
whispers and giggles
behind my back
I was able to notice
the loud noises at home
but I left them alone
sometimes
not often enough
I was an oddball
and my friend decided she had had enough
of being associated with that oddball
and when I needed her
she left
to another group of people
leaving me alone
and suddenly vulnerable
I noticed it then
a bit too much
the giggles in school
the loudness at home
the silence in my soul
the loss of will
you didn't shatter me
not at all
you just shattered a wall
I had built
to tell myself
that not all people were bad
maybe I would just know one
or two
but you were three
and i lost my ability to lie
to myself
and say everything was alright
because it wasn't
alright
and I couldn't lie
and the sadness
oh the sadness
was a tide
a hurricane
a tsunami
and I was lost
in a war
within myself
I waited
so long
for someone to save me
I waited
for an Edward
or a Harry
or a Dobby
anyone
anyone at all
but no one came
and I was alone
I was so alone
it was depressing
and it took me a while
to realize that I needed to be
my own light
in a world of cruelty
I had started to drown
it was difficult to swim my way out
but I did It
I became my own light
I embraced myself
and I still fight sometimes
with that darkness
the ocean of sadness
but I'm helping myself
because it's true
that in a life of metaphorical darkness
you have to be your own light
it still hurts some days
I still wonder
at 12 am
why was I not enough
because I was sincere
and that wasn't enough
I was honest, and gentle
and that wasn't enough
and I still fight sometimes
with that darkness
that ocean of sadness
but I'm helping myself
because it's true
that in a life of metaphorical darkness
you've got to be your own light
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC