"heartsickness" poems
it's one o'clock in the morning
and it smells of drugstore perfume, daisies
mixed with something attempting
to be sweeter than sugar
when its truly salt
swirled together with
arsenic and my vapid feelings.
it's one o'clock in the morning
and it feels like static, like the fuzziness
on television screens and the
sensation of the wires in my
brain snapping from this exhaustion
that was never there till i
gave up on the phantom innocence i'd been
clinging to in the hopes it
was still clinging onto the shreds of
clothing at my feet.
it's one o'clock in the morning
and it looks as though everything has been
painted monochrome. it's a series
of hazy greys and blurry whites, but
it's mostly a black delved so dark
i can't see anything through it; it's
not transparent enough to even
glance at the stars blinking down
toward the earth because the nighttime
won't let me see anything but mysteries
and untouched memories.
it's one o'clock in the morning
and it tastes like blood, so much
blood. there's metal on my tongue
and it's everywhere because there's no
knife anywhere, just this transpiercing
pain in my stomach and my lungs are
being sliced open and the gore of my guts
is spilling onto the tile floor and there's
blood covering my hands and my
face is cracking against concrete and
i'm puking rainbows again
and it tastes of heartsickness.
it's one o'clock in the morning
and it sounds like nothing. it's
the kind of nothing that
everyone notices: the breath that
stops when one gets the news
that their loved one is leaving
them for good, the nothing after
a performance that's left everyone
contemplating the universe and love
and whether i actually want to
live at all, the silence following
the coffin being shut. it's the nothingness
of sobs and heartbreak and
death. it's the sound of
loneliness - particularly mine.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 7:51 PM UTC
The romantics quiver before beauty. Charmed in alarming ways. Does such an asset have a fatal flaw? A longing at all costs. Perhaps the beauty of the character changes on its environment. Stringing bones together.
As for fate, a cruel short distance to arrive, perhaps the actions is not random.
Immersing yourself, in daily life.
Just to be plucked out and placed into obscurity.
Some understand their own hearts, rolling over into their character, defeating flaws and killing fear. For now, you’re alone in a world you never made.
Lucid heartsickness.
Learning now, why one would crave true beauty in another’s character. A life without that soul bearing love, where poems bragged about, is not worth living, unless it’s a passionate life, wild soulmates. Grief pounding, losing attributes, such as insecurity and gaining contentment gasping meaning. Finding love, a strange waves of awe and personal awakening.
(knowledge variable)
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 8:20 PM UTC
In the beginning there is burning desire,
Pleasurable pain and incessant thudding against omniscient walls
Love burns bright with the glow of ethereal passion
As lovers trade scents and nail marks and scars
The days go quickly with patience and calm
And the nights go slow with ignited libido
As sweet and sticky honey flows expeditiously from a jar
Suddenly the serene beginning ends
The prominent, shrill cry of an egotistical infant sounds
Through a night that once was home to passion
Resentment lodges a spot in the marrows of tired bones
The nights are quick and well awaited
And the days are spent nursing and feeding and preparing for a paramount life
As sweet and sticky honey slows its thriving speed
All of the sudden, it is nor the beginning or the end
The age of sticky hands and Crayola and Goodnight moon
Little feet make floorboards creak at the end of the day with excitement
And the lack of lust is surrogated by the richness of love
Day jobs are dreary but devotion is not
The days go on and on and on
And the nights go quietly with small joys
As honey settles in its jar for what feels perpetual
Rapidly, it is the beginning of the end
Slammed doors and Aerosmith records blaring with bitterness
The egotistical child that once screeched for affection now rejects it
But love remains and despite dark rooms and harsh words traded with reckless abandon,
It overcomes
The days are lonely
And the nights are too
As the honey rapidly slips away
So it is the end
As trivial collections are arranged in boxes
To be shipped to a new home far away from this one
Old videos make for heartsickness and phone calls make for bittersweet joy
And elders reflect on a life that was not in vain
The floorboards still creak at the end of the day
Not with excitement, but rather with age
The days are quiet and
The nights are too but that is okay
The jar may be empty but the residue is sweeter still
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC