"freyed" poems
I sat down to write about how you made me feel, Funny, I thought something indescribeable would be easy to explain
For the longest time I was In a dark place. With weights of lead bound around my heart. The inside of my skull became walls that I was forced to scream at my flesh was a barrier to letting the happyness out, my fingers gripping cold steal triggers trembling pleading to let the grey matter out
To decorate the walls in my own shade of misery.
But I'm here
Breathing
It's strange, for a boy who never leave his room. To sit Under his washing line and listen to the birds sing. I lie on butter cups as I watch clouds dart between wire and cotton, how did I get here?
What God did I pray too?
Who did I pay?
When my world was over. My pistol In my hand. You happened.
The cloud that had allways sat just out of sight came running. Galloping . To give me water. To give me life,
A blue eyed blonde haired mirror of myself emerged,
Your smile Is warm. And kind. Like the evening sun I write this in,
Your touch was wholesome. And craved, you took the freyed edges of the tapastry that had become my life and started to spin a new story. You took the lead weights from my heart and melted them into sinkers so we could catch stories with our fingers, your skin felt like silk that I could never afford.
With each step you danced on egg shells as you try collect my broken pieces
And when a part of my was missing you filled it with a part of you. And now I find myself intertwined.
Here in this warm glow I notice something I've never had before.
The voices In my head have stopped chiming. The cries are far away.
Your gifts have not stopped coming. I pray your here to stay
In less time then anyone has ever been in my life you have done so much more, in less time then it took to knock me down you've built me into something more
I'll never forget the way I feel right now, here. Today.
Because each and every time I see you.
I know I'll stay this way
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 12:16 AM UTC
Poet or not; sometimes the meaning you form
From my words sting.
Perhaps. Sound spoken; merely
The rythmic motority
Of a machine -broken pistons, freyed wiring-
That take kind thoughts clean and pure and dispense
Words that hurt like
Soap in
A baby's eyes.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 6:16 PM UTC
Its 6:01, Farringdon Platform 1
Shattered souls craned necks
And twiddling thumbs.
The fool in the know.
The first to know; the last to accept it.
Here stood reflecting.
Silently condemning a life accepted
Reams of fleeces overground and understated.
Shrouded from sheering myself.
The fool in the know.
The first to know; the last to accept it.
How my hem has freyed
No, not from loft today
Through rubbing ankles under desks,
To metamorphose
To a child cocooned blanket bound
Rubbing ankles dreaming sound
I dream as the child dreamt
As a baby longed to feel
I long for what I have felt
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 1:33 PM UTC
Sometimes I feel like I’m made of thread
I’m sewing up my freyed parts
With the strings I’m made of
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 11:27 PM UTC