"excavation" poems
this is my excavation to
the days coming along
running hands with laughter
throwing it down on the table
*straight
flush
okay, cool*
sister, these things don’t matter
when we’re twisting into the sun
with pants that are too short
the fountain rich with
iced chai
tangled with the peculiar
the beautiful
through these moments
I commend
our hearts for finding each other
love is always on the move
as sure as shoe shine
as mahogany
like timidity to relinquish
to let the universe take hold
and instill this emotion
into my body
fit it all in my heart
O, singer of love
fit it all in my heart
the knell
the reverberation
the cotton that lands
on your hair
the sunscreen stuck in my ear
we are a sketch of two travelers
sleeping under stars
the fire
finally dies down
the rapture of the universe
is overwhelming
everything flows
everyone is connected
and this music we hear
is constant
like gentle waters falling
this too, sister
makes my cane solemn
and I draw you in the sand
only to watch the tide
wash you next to me
the emotion
wrangled in English
simply means good
simply means
a full listen and
dear sister
because everything begins
and will be remembered always
as love
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
only an idiot like me, the rain poured down, my socks were wetted, and i looked at the pavement for glory, instead i found a £10 note and imagined my right shoe on my left leg, and my left shoe on my right leg... just to prove the luck.
it came from listening to rotting christ's kata
ton daimona...
i wrote the poem on two tesco receipts
numbering them no. 1 - .4,
it made sense to just give it a narrative...
the naturally apparent lisp of greek is due to...
lies between theta (θ) and phi (φ)...
check feta cheese... it might be less morbidly fermented...
that's why the greeks have a natural lisp...
it's theta and it's phi...
in english it's like chinese.... w & r...
something's rolling something's waving,
something's trigonometric...
harrison fowd was almost jonathan woss if i care...
the chinese in english debate with chin-chin-wanker
scissors piece of paper stone good luck on the handshake:
lost the price of interest being gained for excavation
purposes of dinosaur bones and inflation via the
ptertodactyl of the extended mohawk shave...
english dicionary makes me confused...
it places theta alongside the, than... but then
it's therapy... thermometer...
too many unique examples i'd have said...
that's the lisp there... sidelined phew and engaged in phew
in byzantine...
english linguistics is filled with too many "unique" examples
of expression... coupled with the celebrity culture...
i farted and a person took hold of a *** squeeze...
how's that?! english language in summary?
pleasing on the eye... but the spelling? a burden on the tongue.
i know that slavic linguistics would make enlgish that's written
ugly...
it wouldn't be pharmacology but farmacology...
then it made sense, i stopped asking the english dicta
written down, the greek θ wasn't a couple of th & etc...
a few athenains in death metal said it like i said it... the 2nd f...
it was απηθανoν - because it was simply athens - fern fence...
and not d... defence, or anything easily acquired as a prescription
of zee wee point of german scottish.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
Our fighting spirit is the flame of our souls
Ensures us to reach in our most desperate times impossible seeming goals
Even if you should be full of misery, full of holes, it picks you up, fills you with confidence, pride, excitement and determination,
Maybe this seems like an exaggaration, or an excavation of falsities,
But with it you would be able to work as hard as the birds, or even the bees,
Even though you seem like you can't go on, saying " this is it "
There is an ember from the bottom of your heart which has been lit,
So get rid, of all your doubt, of all your inconfidence, rise from the fire
I am sure, the fight is gonna be worth it, you will reach even higher,
As long as you carry this flame within you and the noble desire,
To never, ever give up.
~ Umi
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 7:40 PM UTC
He had drifted in among us as a straw drifts with the tide,
He was just a wand'ring mongrel from the weary world outside;
He was not aristocratic, being mostly ribs and hair,
With a hint of spaniel parents and a touch of native bear
He was very poor and humble and content with what he got,
So we fed him bones and biscuits, till he heartened up a lot;
Then he growled and grew aggressive, treating orders with disdain,
Till at last he bit the butcher, which would argue want of brain.
Now the butcher, noble fellow, was a sport beyond belief,
And instead of bringing actions he brought half a shin of beef,
Which he handed on to Fido, who received it as a right
And removed it to the garden, where he buried it at night.
'Twas the means of his undoing, for my wife, who'd stood his friend,
To adopt a slang expression, "went in off the deepest end",
For among the pinks and pansies, the gloxinias and the gorse
He had made an excavation like a graveyard for a horse.
Then we held a consultation which decided on his fate:
'Twas in anger more than sorrow that we led him to the gate,
And we handed him the beef-bone as provision for the day,
Then we opened wide the portal and we told him, "On your way."
8.4k
A generation navigating illusionment:
I am one. Excavation; i sift. Shaking
a plastic basket.
Round - and channel mouths spout
a wire crosshatch. I
Tap
Against
My palm.
Fine flour lands on the counter and
In my head I listen to the same songs
because I already know the words.
I look for a truth outside my mind
because on weekdays I tell myself
I’m not worth knowing.
How do you stop hating yourself
When you hate yourself because
You hate yourself?
When I slide my hand across the counter,
White flour mist puffs and I listen:
Mac Miller’s alive. He said he’s
surviving on ***** almonds, and granola bars.
Grasped in some five fingers
A thin red handle.
Apr 10, 2020
Apr 10, 2020 at 4:31 PM UTC
I am clueless as to how I have dug a hole in this concrete ground, 60 feet deep. The dust I’ve been choking on does not bother me no more, layers piling upon my lungs like snow upon an exposed carcass. The slightest upheaval of my chest and tingling in my lungs reminds me that I still breathe. I’ve met scaffolds of bones down here. As I stare into their hollow sockets, I could never figure if they were ever esurient for something I held. They taught me how the ocean is never blue but only a de facto reflection of the sky. They said many mistook the sea for the sky, but never once mentioned the salt that contaminated their lungs- the impetus that drove their feet 60 steps into the waves. A reconciliation it must have been. I doubt it made any difference, when their hearts were bleeding out; a pity it doesn’t make it any lighter. Down they sank.
I wonder if I mistook these soils for the sky. As I looked up, I realised that the sky only seemed further away. There’s something peculiarly comfortable down here, the little bumps on the walls and contours of the craters looked like jawlines of a new-found friend. The sun is so blindingly high in the sky. I preferred how sometimes I could see the man in the moon- shadows cast by imperfections on the moon’s surface. In the vague moonlight and scrawny silhouettes, the fact that the moon always has a dark side makes it tangible a thousand miles away. Sometimes, I lay on this wooden receptacle discovered upon excavation and gaze at the empty skies with my friend as he tells me what lies outside this trough. Happiness is a pack of hungry wolves and when they are done, you are left with only your marrows. I see things clearer down here, than above where they are smothered by smoke from the trees they burned to the ground. Sometimes the skies are dark with no hint of dusk, sometimes the sky is filled with white nebula; but most of the times, the days are shorter than the nights. But it never gets any darker down here.
I figured I could never mistake this hole for the sky. I was just chasing these broken pieces like I used to chase happiness. I have no idea how I’ve gotten this deep while trying to pick up these pieces that I don’t recognise. But the struggle tells me it’s real, and the pain keeps me awake. They say if you spend enough time with someone, you will fall in love. I guess that’s what happened between sadness and me.
I’m staying here.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC
I cringe at what I see,
reflected cleanly, though
****** battered and useless.
The breath wasted on
such a life form is quite
simply astronomical;
astounding how pathetic
impressions turn out to be.
Hearts keep aching and
faking, just praying someone
will take heed, take the
lead on the excavation
of that diamond in the rough
that I so clearly see
hovering over the bathroom sink.
If the chiseling and the
scraping doesn't dissolve
the diamond altogether;
if the diamond exists
at all.
And if it doesn't
no great loss, merely
a few chipped tools
and a burdened mirror;
always left to survey
and report upon the
damage of a plummeting
self image reflection.
I've never wanted a rock
to weigh me down, anyway.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 1:38 PM UTC
oh such few words are minded,
no bravery apart
from the homosexuals
as skeletons in the chronicles of Narnia
being discovered among
the skeletons of tyrannosaurus rex
making a bed with its wheelchair able
paws - and the flag of the Cymru
fire-breathing turtles before excavation
and the myths of the mandarin too;
now tell me the sub-human plot with the
Normans when the anglo-sax reigned
to teach me to unlearn english
to avoid assimilation,
like you taught your former colonial subjects
to integrate and to alievate keeping assimilation:
which you taught to unlearn the mother's
tongue and learn a discrimination
against furthering the multi-cultural project...
which you taught to integrate and
keep at loss a sacred soul of never assimilating
akin to jew...integrate i must,
assimilate i care not for should i be totally
albino or asserting bleached with peace:
albino oder beteuern gebleicht mit frieden.
integrate i must to utilise the coinage
but to assimilate i must turn into a reggae african
with roots in the Caribbean than the Ivory Coast...
and god willing i will not claim to be
an arab's brother to settle karma over
uplifting the curse over Mecca with ibn Saud's
clock-tower; burn!!!
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
I sat by the fountain,
watching the sun play out
the last moments of summer
in the company of young and old,
each of us attracted to its laughter.
And a voice spoke out
of a corner of this retreated peace
"It's the end of something.
At least the start
of something ending.
It's the end of many things
that you've grown accustomed to,
that have grown around you
and within you - rooted.
And so you may wonder -
- will the roots simply die from neglect?
(Has that dying already begun
from past neglect? Discuss.)
Or will you have to find the will
to uproot them?
- will the pain be worth the excavation?
- will the freeing of them better free you?
Or will you one day be grateful
for the remains of what was?
"So, for now, carry the remains.
Carry the scars and the stains.
Walk with confidence through this ending."
I listened to the voice in the quiet.
And sat with the fountain a while longer.
Knowing I'll find the decision sooner
or later. For tomorrow, it was September.
Aug 31, 2025
Aug 31, 2025 at 9:00 AM UTC
here's the thing:
there are days when i lose my rhythm of life
my legs stumble across walking flat pavement
i lose my balance on the stable ends of the road
i jump headfirst in manholes meant for excavation
and i refuse to exit the darkness
there are days like these
there are days when i run dry
my mouth becomes a desert crawling with prayers
my flesh is a wasteland of golden opportunity
my vision is a disfigured specter in shades of grey
and every sound translates into white noise
there are days like these
there are days when words do not help
every apology and thank you leaves me raw
i bleed and hurt and bleed and hurt
and every word still leaves me ******
i will allow myself to be empty on days like these
there will always be days like these
these days do not end in salvation
these are the horsemen of my apocalypse
and on the backs of every stallion
is a part of me that tramples over
the greatest dimensions of who i am
they leave prints not easily covered
they leave me a little more scarred
they leave me a little more tired
here's the thing:
these are the days that become my muses
these are the days of great wreckage
and someday these days will be myths
great stories meant for the taking
but for now
this is the truth.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 1:43 PM UTC
*(this poem don't matter much
unless you balk with ***** to essay upon,
thyself, thy valentine failures,
children and ex's who have ex'd you out,
sad love songs
one more time,
even joyous ones,
foolishness human,
then this intro source code,
is an unnecessary winter weather advisory)*
a phrase, song~played, scratches,
brain self-commands
via electric synapse
To: the current in-resident body
extrude denude private places
riff,
get to thy work,
decompose on them words:
in the private places
play with the lowly lowest ranking,
private, who by nature, sees
finer the dirtiest,
privy to the privy,
privilege them
to the most personal,
spit/spill/weep/deep
some or none of it all,
cause the scratch is the
poetic salvation to that
bitch~itch, write
the best you get,
dispossess the beastie best
in the pvt. places,
ain't much/no difference
tween beastie and all the crapper rest
draw from the private places,
cast up to light,
revelations devaluations sensations
impolite,
well kept secrets
if you can say it good,
then draw it up from the well
where the private places
were|where sent to drown,
and if you can't,
no bother brother,
after this exculpation excavation,
I'll go back with you
to adding a rock to the
bottom of the pile,
the mountain of superficial crap
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
A humbling profession is
Biblical archaeology,
where people are found prostrate -
Searching for glimpses of Man's history.
Forgotten souls and evidence have been
covered by layers of earthly dust,
as recent discoveries now include...
The decoding of Israel's "Exodus".
An eclectic collection of artifacts
of the "Hyksos Expulsion" have been laid bare
by Simcha, the "Naked Archaeologist",
on TV's "The History Channel" everywhere.
Proposed is a brilliant theory,
that spans a labyrinth of time,
while he employs computer graphics
to capture believers' hearts and minds.
An unending excavation
of God's Truth will forever last,
while we focus our attention
and gaze through... His prism to our past.
Author Notes:
Simcha J., the "Naked Archaeologist", released a two-hour video called "Decoding the Exodus".
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 8:56 AM UTC
I am a musical note in a guitar
Waiting for the touch of dexterous hands
I am a chrysalis under a paling leaf
Waiting to be turned into a butterfly
I am raw ore in the far depths of the mine
Waiting to be extracted and purified
I am a smoldering piece of coal in the hearth
Waiting to be blown into a flame
I am a rough stone under the Earth’s crust
Waiting to be hewn into a diamond
I am an antique piece long buried in the soil
Waiting excavation to become a treasured exhibit
I am a piece of canvas fixed on the easel
Waiting for the touch of a master artist
How I long to transcend my rawness
Into something better and refined
But can I do anything wholly myself
Never! Everything depends on others will too
I discern I am only a flickering shadow
That has existence only if there is light!
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 6:35 AM UTC
pain loves the present tense
it loves gravity so that the clouds
are turned into geological strata
sometimes I use my hands like an anaesthetic
between right and wrong the pain dillema:
to feel or not to feel (the unknown)
we discover clever remedies or illusions
quiet cannery in the storehouse of flesh
it comes in circles mixtures all kind of names
it has rythm texture electric blackness
each unshed tear an orb of contraction
compulsive excavation of the void inside
sometimes I feel I have canyons of salt in my heart
on the edges of safety so much to learn about terror
this pain is a blind Robinson on Hope island
(with his bare hands he sets pyres in his heart)
was it pain that invented this language, these holy wars?
love you, hate you, nonsense, can't stand it anymore
I know my father lied to me that he doesn't feel pain
bodies in pain can't dream the water slide of life
that might take us further away into the night of day
time to say thank you, say farewell,
love everything that simply is
it is time to
Mar 21, 2023
Mar 21, 2023 at 3:23 PM UTC
.as i once explained the concept of a seasonal diet to a pair of english pensioners, citing the Essex strawberry harvest, counter the Spanish winter imports... certain graveyards, in winter, can unnecessarily compete with museums, stressed as focal points during summer.
who is here,
to, expect...
comfortable?
i sacrifice the
aspect of museum,
in order,
to find a second tier
of peace...
within the confines
of cemeteries'
exfoliation
of statues...
weathered,
slightly hidden...
in guise,
of half living, half dead...
yet all the more:
ever watchful,
that persistent...
prosecutor stature...
with death...
the sole "ambiguity"
of a...
jury;
a jury...
with a persona non grata?!
mon deus!
but one answer:
je suis mort!
since?
it is really hard.. to re-appreciate revisiting
museums at this point...
whatever the ancient in modern
terms focus for the pre-Byzantine
marble...
the open air extravaganza
of statues in a Slavic cemetery?
weathered, chiseled by a shyness?
teased out of existence?
primordial in a focus
of being haunted?!
well... museums have nothing to offer,
given this fleshed out
excavation.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:32 PM UTC
emotionally drained
past calling back
echoing all around
haunting and foreboding
threatening to reemerge
or is it just past expectations
past fears,
that I place over the present
though these words
are frighteningly familiar
too close to heart
to ignore
too close to past pain
past insecurities
to not worry,
not worry that it is
all too true
not worry that
the pattern will continue
that it really is cause of me -
the mine shaft is
closing all around
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 10:07 AM UTC
Application of misinformation
Falsify a failed nation,
Eradication of all creation
Misinterpretation
Of representation
Deny the station
Granted by occupation
And the inhalation
Of justification
No prerequisite information
Just accumulation
No moderation,
Their determination
Through stimulation
Cultural ************
Communal degradation
Societal desecration,
Dehumanizing revocation,
Worldly humiliation,
Mortal sterilization
Never achieving mobilization
Lack of communication
Excelling in vile persuasion,
Proponents of procreation
Birthing digitization,
Destroy civilization,
Indications of adoration
Isolation in delineation,
Irrational indexation,
Fluctuating indignation,
No innovation,
Divination
Retaliation,
Immolation,
False ovation,
Lacking limitations,
Contextual intonation,
Divine fabrication,
Private publication,
Evolving fornication,
Give me extermination,
Notwithstanding annexation
Of dismaying oxidation,
Of valued perpetuation,
Global mass-castration,
Redundant rhetoric, dictation,
A donation, a dilation, a fixation,
An annotation of fibrillation,
We are personification
Of Contamination
Through globalization
Praising idolization
And finalization
Through **********
No pragmatic exoneration,
In all frustration
We see not utilization
Nor stabilization,
Fearful implications
Of wayward stations,
Surplus mutilations,
Seeking militarization
Of worthless nations,
No conservation,
Just excavation
Of the population
******** on education,
Spitting on graduation,
No validation of aspiration,
Indoctrination of baptization
Mitigating litigation,
murdering habitation,
Quelling all vegetation
We will end in radiation
Through faulty navigation,
Abdication and abnegation,
All worldly agitation
Leads us to expiration,
Self-made annihilation.
There was never an end in sight,
We’re lost, and hope is a lie.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 8:14 PM UTC
I sometimes wield the pen in spite
Of why I am convinced I write
The poetic words that I spill
Spill like a glass of water
That’s been stirred to overflow
By my feelings and thoughts or so
I have gotten to know
The will of the flow
The direction that it wants to go
That’s what po-
etry is all about, no?
Because poem starts
with a P for personal
Not popular
Or populous
Not for the people who prefer prying
Pickpocketing or playful plying
In the placid plains inside
It’s for the persons who pray
To the poet’s plight
To go out on an odyssey,
with an O, the second letter
Not omniscient
Or omnipotent
For oscillating with your own
Is only for ones once overthrown
By an onslaught of hydrogen per-oxide
Those ostracized and odd
Off, yet open to the outside
E is the third letter
And it stands for emotional
Or extorted
until emptiness
Extended
after the excavation had ended
and emotion was evacuated ere
The embodiment of ecstasy
Had been enterred here
Lastly M stands for me!
Me, myself and I!
Not the masses who maim
My mind and meticulously aim
For the mark on my midbrain
Just the men and wo-men who make do
With musing about the mechanisms of
Mother Earth and her miracles too
Poetry is a gift
Out with it to be at ease
Especially for yourself
May it help you find peace
Aug 4, 2017
Aug 4, 2017 at 6:54 PM UTC
I start with a backhoe, displacing
brain-sized clumps of earth.
A few fickle particles escape
between the imposing metal teeth.
The mechanized bucket clinks
against a rigid texture.
I grab a shovel, bending my spine
to the task at hand.
Pretty soon the shovel only scoops up
unsatisfying fistfuls of dust.
It is cast aside for the broom,
revealing the smooth shape underneath.
A dingy film is spread around
by the coarse fibers of the broom.
I grab my toothbrush, furiously scrubbing
the chrome-plated formation.
Now all passersby
can bite my shiny metal
victory.
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
I dove headlong into the sea two weeks ago.
Grey clouds
grey skies
reflected gray waters.
Rain fell, ambivalent,
hiding the sun, obscuring the soul
if soul there was. I don’t know what the rain believes,
but I knew it meant well.
I kicked off my shoes; shed my sweater, draping it across a rock
beaten smooth by crashing saltwater assaults,
misery endured silently for millennia
solid, solitary, solemn.
I walked, barefoot, across the stones.
I listened to the ringing of the silence
to the roar of the ocean.
Rain-soaked and reverent,
I willed myself to the edge of the rocks,
where I watched the waves seething below,
calling, inviting
nagging, inciting
persisting, requesting
insisting, infesting.
Turning my face to the absent sun,
I closed my eyes
felt the sting of the icy wind
felt the hairs on my arms begin to stand,
the frigid air aching in my lungs.
My breath caught, shivers interrupting a sigh of submission,
and I told myself
*Peace.
You are not afraid. Not anymore.*
And I smiled. And I felt warm.
And I was happy.
I counted one, two, three,
and I fell.
You see beauty every day,
but tell me,
do you ever feel it?
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 11:17 PM UTC
today i learned that a friend of mine
was nearly tickled by death
in a terrorist excavation of bones
in Brussels, with jean-claude van damme
included in the action sequence -
although without stunt artists, by god,
that's the second girl on my list of near
encounters with death and a permanence of tombstones;
i took four beers for a walk
trying to gather dogs' tears along the way...
if she was only worth blowing myself up i would,
she wasn't - because, i mean,
is this a 72-get-together asking about circumcision
and contraception, and is the niqab an over-sized ******
in the supermarket jokes,
me with my long hair tied into
a samurai's bun of a seashell, she with her
hijab... i didn't get the joke either...
i said i wrote poetry for friends,
and yes, i've become a so-called milk carton
at the supermarket - the expected, shelved -
first they asked for my name, then what i did,
matthew, poet...
well you've got the cheapest bottles of whiskey
around here, of course i'll testify
to a religiosity of having to repeat purchase... d'uh!
still, jean-claude van damme and those
four cans of beer... the dogs salivated more
than wept: so i collected saliva rather than salt drops,
of what could have suckled dry a field
readied for a harvesting of potatoes.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 6:18 PM UTC
In the brink of dying,
To grab air, my faith keeps on trying
The continuation of my existence
My threatened hope’s presence
Are they real?
My demons are shattered
There are monsters under my bed
No, they are inside my head
He talked to me
Yes, my teddy spoke to the boy in the mirror
The bear said he loved him
So, he accused him of lying
I cuddled under my blanket
The mattress hugged me, I felt the placket
Standing by the desk lamp silhouetted,
Who is he? Please, tell me
Now my cradle started hollowing out
My body follows through the excavation
I’m falling to the mouth it has shaped
Dwindling and plummeting through the darkness
Being gulped by the unfamiliar
A place between excitement and anxiety
Someone knocks on my door
Sunlight cuts through the drape’s slit to the floor
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 6:10 AM UTC
Butterflies primarily drink nectar from flowers
sometimes they lick minerals from the decaying flesh of dead bodies
they're also attracted to the salt in tears
as a child I read that having them in my stomach would be a good feeling
but I don't know if I'd describe this that way
maybe I'm a fully functioning ecosystem
but there are no environmentalists protecting my heart
one day a bulldozer is going to crush me
the building that goes up might be prettier than this
maybe the signs of my impending excavation are already up
I don't want to read them
because
right now she makes me feel
nervous
like a leaf
panicking as her eyes send me spiraling from my tree
falling slowly
without control
fluttering over the earth for months
thinking Oh God Oh God Oh God
maybe if she loved me I'd be grounded
we'd be mulch
improving the soil quality
but there are prettier leaves from better trees
I can't choose when to fall
if she knew
I think she'd tell me to stay on my tree
I don't think she'd choose me
but my life will never be an evergreen
I don't know if she's a leaf too
if she is she isn't falling
she's staying on her tree
green and thriving
she's so much stronger than me
she's not afraid to ask questions
she only blushes when she drinks
she doesn't fall easily
I am so afraid
reddening and falling are parts of my life cycle
maybe
she's a tree
the most beautiful tree
full of music
a sun dappled universe in her own right
and I am not a scientist
I don't understand the universe
but I know that her nostrils flare when she laughs
her smile might be the best thing to ever be directed at me
the noise she makes to fill long silences is the cutest thing ever
it would take an earthquake to make her fall
and she deserves someone who will rock her world
but I am just a dead leaf being eaten by butterflies
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
Everything's out now
In the air, in the open
On the table
Spilling over the sides
More to come
Still, I'm just not sure this was the right way to go about it
I want to take some back
Though it felt so cathartic to unload
The empty space vacated
Is hungry for the secrets I've given away
The fresh void
Craves the pampered memories
The lost recollections that once glowed with shame
I miss the skeletons I've evicted from my soul closet
Recklessly disassembled
Tossed out with no rhyme or reason
Onto this pyre
Too late to turn back now, I've already lit the fire
I could reach in, perhaps
Sacrifice fingers or hands to retrieve precious few
But which ones?
Would they be enough to fill the churning stomach?
Would I grow to resent them for the ones that weren't chosen?
No...best to let them all burn with limbs and digits intact
The excavation process seemed so simple at the time
Heavy weights lifted from my shoulders
The promise of a bright and shining future
Unburdened by revelation I thought I could offer
So sure it would change lives, not the least of which
My own
How naïve to believe
It was worth anything in the first place
It belonged with the dancing skeletons
In the hole with the transparent ghosts of guilt
Evil twin, doppelganger of gravity
To pull me down into sinful reality
I loved them all
I still do
Though I'm quite sure I've murdered them
They will never die
My salvation comes only in the knowledge
That they belong to the past,
Unable to survive outside of the paradigm in which they are imprisoned,
And that it is my very nature
As a human being
To live in the present moment
In which they have no power
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 6:54 AM UTC