"rags" poems
The road seen, then not seen, the hillside hiding
then revealing the way you should take,
the road dropping away from you as if leaving you
to walk on thin air, then catching you, holding you up,
when you thought you would fall, and the way forward
always in the end the way that you came, the way
that you followed, the way that carried you into your future,
that brought you to this place, no matter that it sometimes
took your promise from you, no matter that it always
had to break your heart along the way, the sense
of having walked from far inside yourself out into the revelation,
to have risked yourself for something that seemed
to stand both inside you and far beyond you,
that called you back in the end to the only road
you could follow, walking as you did, in your
rags of love and speaking in the voice
that by night, became a prayer for safe arrival…
by: David Whyte
excerpt from SANTIAGO
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river
You can hear the boats go by
You can spend the night beside her
And you know that she's half crazy
But that's why you want to be there
And she feeds you tea and oranges
That come all the way from China
And just when you mean to tell her
That you have no love to give her
Then she gets you on her wavelength
And she lets the river answer
That you've always been her lover
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that she will trust you
For you've touched her perfect body with your mind.
And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you'll trust him
For he's touched your perfect body with his mind.
Now Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river
She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbour
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds the mirror
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that you can trust her
For she's touched your perfect body with her mind.
22.9k
I got a tattoo last night
Did it myself, all needles and ink
Sterile like the bathroom floor
And wet rags dyed black and pink
It was a little picture of a house
Sitting on top of my left hip
Pinpricks of ink pushed into my skin
And not once did I let the needle slip
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 1:15 PM UTC
Most schools have projects, in science classes and such.
Most of us, mastered the science of surviving in projects.
It's those at the bottom who need the most help, but cant even get proper school supplies.. where's the logic ?.
But oh, the rags to riches story is prevalent isn't it? Nope, the only rich I know is Professor Richard.
And that's not even something worth mentioning, he does more lessening than lessons lets paint the picture..
But these young kids don't understand, they try to curse them, place them in prisons, its a trap from birth..
Give them these Rick Rosses as role models, knowing they don't have fathers, instead of Tupac Shakur, showing them worth..
My bestfriend Tony once questioned his dark skin, just like i once questioned my brown.
how profound, a couple 4th graders at the time, having to prove that they were "down".
Crazy how Tony proved he was down, now i visit his site yearly on November the third.
And things aren't getting better, but nobody gives a **** haven't you heard..
The prayers our mothers chant, ritually every night.
Praying to the Sun gods, perhaps one day we'll all unite.
-afj
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 8:34 AM UTC
I used to take the back off
the telephone and stuff it with rags
and when somebody knocked
I wouldn't answer and if they persisted
I'd tell them in terms ******
to vanish.
just another old crank
with wings of gold
flabby white belly
plus
eyes to knock out
the sun.
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Look in the mirror. Let us both look.
Here is my naked body.
Apparently you like it,
I have no reason to.
Who bound us, me and my body?
Why must I die
together with it?
I have the right to know where the borderline
between us is drawn.
Where am I, I, I myself.
Belly, am I in the belly? In the intestines?
In the hollow of the *** In a toe?
Apparently in the brain. I do not see it.
Take my brain out of my skull. I have the right
to see myself. Don’t laugh.
That’s macabre, you say.
It’s not me who made
my body.
I wear the used rags of my family,
an alien brain, fruit of chance, hair
after my grandmother, the nose
glued together from a few dead noses.
What do I have in common with all that?
What do I have in common with you, who like
my knee, what is my knee to me?
Surely
I would have chosen a different model.
I will leave both of you here,
my knee and you.
Don’t make a wry face, I will leave you all my body
to play with.
And I will go.
There is no place for me here,
in this blind darkness waiting for
corruption.
I will run out, I will race
away from myself.
I will look for myself
running
like crazy
till my last breath.
One must hurry
before death comes. For by then
like a dog ****** by its chain
I will have to return
into this stridently suffering body.
To go through the last
most strident ceremony of the body.
Defeated by the body,
slowly annihilated because of the body
I will become kidney failure
or the gangrene of the large intestine.
And I will expire in shame.
And the universe will expire with me,
reduced as it is
to a kidney failure
and the gangrene of the large intestine.
12k
I'm leaving tomorrow
But I'm staying today
Before the dawn
I'll be gone away
No one watches me walk away
I'm leaving tomorrow
But I'm staying today
I've put myself
In the shape I'm in
My head is heavy
And my body's thin
Will someone please let me in?
I'm leaving tomorrow
But I'm staying today
I'm wearing rags
In sleeping bags
I'm drinking coffee
With homeless hags
I don't mean to be a drag
I'll be leaving tomorrow
Can I stay the day?
Please don't throw me away
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC
*"Claim me,"
she whispers in a plea
"claim my soul as I wilt"
Crimson lips parted,
head thrown back
in ecstatic ache
jugular bared
she needs to feel
that sharp -edged love,
skin and barriers broken
as she melts into
the underworld
of a new grace
a magenta cry into
the inky sky
sacred silence penetrated
as only gasps are heard
milky ******* decorated
with red liquid ribbon,
his nourishment,
her demise
******* pierced with
beads of her sunset life flow
as he ***** and bites...
and howling
into heaven's delicious gate,
she writhes
Her soul dissolving
into his night
and as his spirit
absorbs her vermilion soul
their power rises,
black as coal
…………….
your lips
stick black
sanguine smile
tremulous murmurs
oh happy blood blossom of deaths surrender
sacrificial lamb
cats sparrow entranced
thighs on fire
sobbing from a thousand needled kisses
******* tearing blood
each wound a weeping mouth licking
milky white alter of cold stone
saturated alizarin rust
legs wide
feet and ******* trussed
in chains and drenched rags
for cruelties arrow
o crimson queen,
pomegranate half eaten
mouth smudge black
agape
snake tongue dancing
through cherry lips twisted
darkened eyes of fire and blood
a wash in devils incense
beloved veiled
in evils cradle
bind not the demons kiss
then face down my love upon the crypt of mist
black heavens gate
pupa
vampires bate
a blood moon shaking
a scourge you are now
goddess of pleasures wretched
in the Tuileries of the abyss
consort
your every piercing fang
duck tail ****
a boiling cauldron
desire
spills out
dark cupid witch
legs tied to throat
devil ***** twitch
******* in a mote
ive got the itch
feet scorched in rope
hot ******* *****
hells dark pope
vampiress *****
dark girl feeding
the sun is no more
loves the bleeding*
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC
A blank page waits for words that it will never see
Created from the head of someone writing a story
Characters, plot, setting, theme, are central to the tale
Without them every narrative is simply guaranteed to fail
Stakes and consequences must exist for someone to pursue
Whether treacherous of heart, or noble, brave, and true
And if these traits stand not alone but mixed in with the rest
That simply adds more intrigue to the outcome of the test
Will he get the girl? Will she rise above her station?
Can a rags-to-riches fable captivate the nation?
Who done it, where and why? Are three questions most effective
But often ****** requires the help of a detective
These may seem like idle, fragmented bits of a much larger whole
But actually they’re not; every type plays a role
For you see, “someone” mentioned above is not a professional writer
But an individual on a journey, and we all must face it like a fighter
Characters are those you know and love, plot is what you choose to do
Setting is where you live, theme defines what is important to you
So why a fighter you may ask, someone who faces pain and strife?
Because we encounter both good and ill as we write our book of life
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
In the murky depths of muck and mire
hope flickers in hearts
courageous enough to believe;
sending out ripples in the waters
like a domino effect rewound.
Insignificant seedlings to the cruel eye
filled with light and promise
as yet unseen turned
Fragile sprouts in healing green
reaching up and out
to rest hopes on the water front,
as if to console one another -
we are not alone.
Against all odds, bean of India,
Keep going –
Power through the sluggish resistance
Of this darkened plane.
Though life seems lost in loneliness
Listen closely,
Hear the Whispering rumours of life beyond the deep
Of basking in light and life
beneath the welcoming heat
of a dancing sun.
A triumphant act of faith indeed,
to content oneself with growing,
never really knowing
what lies beyond the darkness.
I weep for you
with joy, O little pocket of hope
as you propel yourself forward -
such strength, such courage
for one who as yet knows not
of that rosey happiness,
that snow white purity
that lies beneath your shell.
I stand in awe of you;
You with your absurd elegant beauty
tracing your journey
accepting it as part of yourself
embracing who you once were.
The original rags to riches tale;
Roots in putrid, ravenous foundations
yet you yourself remain unstained.
The journey every bit as beautiful
as your glorious destination –
a testimony to your essential self.
I see you take up your stance
Front and centre, finally ready
to declare yourself to the world.
Budding beauty of new life
awake! open your eyes, your heart,
you dont have to hide anymore
the world is missing who you are.
And time births healing and growth.
Every flower blooms at her own pace;
Tentatively unfolding - delicate and fragile still
with gentle colours begging will I do?
Caught up in a lighter life
becoming bolder, blessed, nurtured
blooming bright, opened out
hello world, here I am.
Your wary days drowned, you claim your space,
Fill your space,
Make it your own.
The ethereal splendour of your gentle petals
Succeeded only by the loveliness within,
As you build up your legacy of hope
So wonder will not be lost in the falling petals
but made more beautiful still
in the healing gifts,
in nourishing others,
in the gifts you give of yourself
back to the world.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 5:44 PM UTC
(March, 1919)A LIAR goes in fine clothes.
A liar goes in rags.
A liar is a liar, clothes or no clothes.
A liar is a liar and lives on the lies he tells and dies in a life of lies.
And the stonecutters earn a living-with lies-on the tombs of liars.
Aliar looks 'em in the eye
And lies to a woman,
Lies to a man, a pal, a child, a fool.
And he is an old liar; we know him many years back.
A liar lies to nations.
A liar lies to the people.
A liar takes the blood of the people
And drinks this blood with a laugh and a lie,
A laugh in his neck,
A lie in his mouth.
And this liar is an old one; we know him many years.
He is straight as a dog's hind leg.
He is straight as a corkscrew.
He is white as a black cat's foot at midnight.
The tongue of a man is tied on this,
On the liar who lies to nations,
The liar who lies to the people.
The tongue of a man is tied on this
And ends: To hell with 'em all.
To hell with 'em all.
It's a song hard as a riveter's hammer,
Hard as the sleep of a crummy hobo,
Hard as the sleep of a lousy doughboy,
Twisted as a shell-shock idiot's gibber.
The liars met where the doors were locked.
They said to each other: Now for war.
The liars fixed it and told 'em: Go.
Across their tables they fixed it up,
Behind their doors away from the mob.
And the guns did a job that nicked off millions.
The guns blew seven million off the map,
The guns sent seven million west.
Seven million shoving up the daisies.
Across their tables they fixed it up,
The liars who lie to nations.
And now
Out of the butcher's job
And the boneyard junk the maggots have cleaned,
Where the jaws of skulls tell the jokes of war ghosts,
Out of this they are calling now: Let's go back where we were.
Let us run the world again, us, us.
Where the doors are locked the liars say: Wait and we'll cash in again.
So I hear The People talk.
I hear them tell each other:
Let the strong men be ready.
Let the strong men watch.
Let your wrists be cool and your head clear.
Let the liars get their finish,
The liars and their waiting game, waiting a day again
To open the doors and tell us: War! get out to your war again.
So I hear The People tell each other:
Look at to-day and to-morrow.
Fix this clock that nicks off millions
When The Liars say it's time.
Take things in your own hands.
To hell with 'em all,
The liars who lie to nations,
The liars who lie to The People.
10.5k
How tenuous this grip we have, how slight our hold remains
When all around loud braggards boast that power now pertains,
We see the banner headlines splashed across our daily rags
And redneck demonstrations cleans the streets of Spics and ****
When blood runs in the gutter as the battons rise and fall
And whilst taking tea in style the filthy rich ignore it all.
The blonde leader of our nation struts, postulates and brags
While the rest of us skive off around the corner smoking ****
Our kids ingest confusion as they loiter on the street
Unknowing our delusions make illusions held, replete.
How tenuous the grip we have, how slight our hold remains
As our allies shower cold distrust convinced our fault inflames.
What chance of clear redemption, what remedies revive
When truth is lost to darkness can our honesty survive?
Reputation cut to shards, confidences ******
That leaders of community no longer hold our trust
When white is caste as black and then to green and then to grey
And sanity refuses pontification one more day.
How tenuous the grip we have, how slight our holds remain
As twilight turns to darkness caste against a larks’ refrain.
M.
The White House
HAMILTON, New Zealand
25 July 2018
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 1:36 AM UTC
I bet you think all ****** don't read.
I bet you think all ****** smoke ****
I bet you think all ****** are the same.
I bet you think all ****** are the blame.
I bet you think ****** don't know nothing about the law.
I bet you think all ****** don't know nothing at all.
I bet you think all ****** are not smart.
I bet you think all ****** don't even care about art.
I bet you think all ****** are from the streets.
I bet you think, oh **** this poem is getting really deep.
I bet you think all ****** carry a heat.
I bet you think all ****** are dead beats.
I bet you think ****** are thugs.
I bet you think all ****** sell drugs.
I bet think all ****** are classless with statuses of madness
I bet you think all ****** are cashless.
I bet you think all ****** are in the penitentiary.
I bet you think all ****** are cemetery.
I bet you think all ****** rap or trap.
I bet you think all ****** sag their pants with two rags and a stockin' cap.
I bet you think all ****** are guilty.
I bet you think all ****** are filthy.
I bet you think all ****** rob.
I bet you think all ****** don't have a job.
I bet you think all ****** don't go to college.
I bet you think all ****** are out here wylin.
I bet you think all ****** are like Christopher Wallace.
I bet you think all ****** will grab and ****** you up for your wallet.
Some say a prophet, nah
I just see it how they call it.
Every line is on hydraulics.
Every time I rhyme, every word becomes solid.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 10:55 PM UTC
A beer can, phone book, a grapefruit
and an Advent wreath
with four candles
in its nest of greens
Two weeks
Two lit
Third one's the Pink
a life three quarters spent?
Next weekend
Saturday-- The Sabbath
falls in Hanukkah
“Blessed art thou, Lord our God
King of the universe
who dost create lights of fire...”
I'll light that third-- the pink one
like a barbarian wise woman
who traveled too far along life's way
to find a Jewish baby, wrapped in rags
...or, was it the old guy that night
lying in the street
outside a New England bar
“Oh Christ! Ya gotta be kidding me!”
Nope, He was there alright
Wallowing in the freezing slush
amid his helpless drunken cries
No cell phones then
Scrapped my pizza plans
On foot alone
waving in frustration
in the passing headlights
a turquoise, wind-crazed scarecrow
______
“Someone's gotta stop?
Someone has to help us, don't they?”
______
Now there are two beer cans
a grapefruit, and a phone book
beside the advent wreath
Third candle lit and leaning out
for hope along the way
Dec 15, 2017
Dec 15, 2017 at 3:05 PM UTC
Disheveled, staggering
Consternation
The debate surreal
The participation
Is optional but I decide
To talk to the man
To hear inside
What do you think
of manipulation?
What causes these
machinations?
Lies to force and to control...
I must admit
He was on a roll
And then the same day
In the eve
With a woman
About to leave
She talks about
This very thing
Same behavior
With a different ring
And then I came
To realize
It can't be hid
Nor disguised
Both fools in rags
And ladies in style
Can spot a liar
From a mile
Feb 14, 2010
Feb 14, 2010 at 2:23 PM UTC
Begging kids are very often seen,
Performing the ridiculous dances,
In hopes of just some of silver dirt,
Cleaning with dirtiest rags your car,
With a lifeless looking baby in arms,
A teenage mama with another inside,
Such is any Indian big city's traffic.
Manipulating them is a hidden lord,
Report to Lord of the Traffic Signal.
Sympathy is what they hope,
Empathy is what we reflect,
Apathy is what they really get.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 7:41 AM UTC
To the thunderstorm I used to love,
you pounded me, beat the windows with your fists,
brought the rain down with your thunderous roar.
rarely, it would hail, and the melting ice would
gleam down the streets, still soiled from the
summer day before you came and took over all daylight.
A severe thunderstorm warning went into effect around
2 a.m. - estimating to begin at 4 and
end at 9.
You came at 5, and it never ended.
While the rain once glistened, it now stings my skin,
crushes my thighs, squeezes my hip, compressing
pressing presser tightening twisting the calf, stabbing
the spine.
I am not in control.
The purple crush of your swirling eyes is
a rush of wind - a cold front in the summer
mist - the shattering of a two-hundred-year-old tree.
I saved butterflies from you only for them to suffocate in their cages. The rags indoors, the frames, they never stopped you - only the rain
prevented your fire.
You are right when you are gone.
The road is a blurry mirror, aging eyesight in the wet darkness.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC
Love is patient
Love is gentle and kind
True Love is never near-sighted or blind
It never boasts
It never brags
It doesn't matter
If your in riches or rags
Love is not rude
It does not say, "Me!, Me!, Me!"
When two become one its, "We!, We!, We!"
Love is not easily angered
It keeps no records of ugly words & wrongs
It only cries out, "How Can We Make It Strong!"
It does not dance with darkness
But serenades the light
To grow stronger is its only appetite
Love always protects
Always hopes and trust
True Love, will never rot or rust
It always perseveres
Through life's storms of thorns & nails
Because, True Love Never Fails.
By Buddy Williams
Sep 28, 2010
Sep 28, 2010 at 10:21 PM UTC
I was a shirt filed with straw and rags.
Pants that hang loose. Jeans cuffed pinned uncomfortably.
Nothing to think of; a hat filled with straw.
The inability to walk. Pinned to a board.
Hickory oak.
Chest disproportionate to a small waist.
Sleeves flung in the wind.
Left standing still; a face motionless.
Pinned to hickory oak.
A shadow left in an empty field, the boundaries of a checkerboard shirt.
The insecurity of straw hands.
Pickett fences to the feet of crows,
Still she'd visit often.
Distance cut short by dark heavy wings.
She'd caw in my silence,
Not knowing the ability to smile I stood against purpose.
She refused to run, poking fun at my hat.
The clothes that hung loosely in the wind, scurf tied tightly around my neck.
Feeling her ***** the strings of my chest.
Strands of straw filled by her need to find a home.
Was there anything there at all before that moment.
Becoming shelter to the way she pried.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 7:11 AM UTC
Indelicate is he who loathes
The aspect of his fleshy clothes, --
The flying fabric stitched on bone,
The vesture of the skeleton,
The garment neither fur nor hair,
The cloak of evil and despair,
The veil long violated by
Caresses of the hand and eye.
Yet such is my unseemliness:
I hate my epidermal dress,
The savage blood's obscenity,
The rags of my anatomy,
And willingly would I dispense
With false accouterments of sense,
To sleep immodestly, a most
Incarnadine and carnal ghost.
6.1k
She would be dressed pretty in rags
slaving like there's no tomorrow
without that bit of altruism
maybe a tad kindhearted
shrouded in materialism.
Fairy godmother's name
is money
lures her
to a game of fame
keeps silent
of its rules.
Her beauty
makes her a winner
she would
be drunk
attention
glamour
pleasure.
Unknowingly
games drawn to an end
the clock strikes twelve;
Struck her
riches to rags
the magic of money
only lasts so long
Struck her
still had not find
her one true love
at the eleventh hour.
Sobered
ran out in embarrassment
left only a glass slipper.
Desolate
returning to rags
a druggie for fame
with much hope
a prince charming
would remember
her to find.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
In the drawer were folded fine
batiste slips embroidered with scrolls
and posies, edged with handmade
lace too good for her to wear.
Daily she put on shmattehs
fit only to wash the car
or the windows, rags
that had never been pretty
even when new: somewhere
such dresses are sold only
to women without money to waste
on themselves, on pleasure,
to women who hate their bodies,
to women whose lives close on them.
Such dresses come bleached by tears,
packed in salt like herring.
Yet she put the good things away
for the good day that must surely
come, when promises would open
like tulips their satin cups
for her to drink the sweet
sacramental wine of fulfillment.
The story shone in her as through
tinted glass, how the mother
gave up and did without
and was in the end crowned
with what? scallions? crowned
queen of the dead place
in the heart where old dreams
whistle on bone flutes
where run-over pets are forgotten,
where lost stockings go?
In the coffin she was beautiful
not because of the undertaker's
garish cosmetics but because
that face at eighty was still
her face at eighteen peering
over the drab long dress
of poverty, clutching a book.
Where did you read your dreams, Mother?
Because her expression softened
from the pucker of disappointment,
the grimace of swallowed rage,
she looked a white-haired girl.
The anger turned inward, the anger
turned inward, where
could it go except to make pain?
It flowed into me with her milk.
Her anger annealed me.
I was dipped into the cauldron
of boiling rage and rose
a warrior and a witch
but still vulnerable
there where she held me.
She could always wound me
for she knew the secret places.
She could always touch me
for she knew the pressure
points of pleasure and pain.
Our minds were woven together.
I gave her presents and she hid
them away, wrapped in plastic.
Too good, she said, too good.
I'm saving them. So after her death
I sort them, the ugly things
that were sufficient for every
day and the pretty things for which
no day of hers was ever good enough.
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 6:24 PM UTC
Chairs are just coat hangers
couches are beds
and clothes are just hand rags you wear
my cell phones just a flash light
and the shower is a neighborhood *****
bank
that doubles as a hairsalon
(so..
what the **** does that make me?)
Oct 28, 2010
Oct 28, 2010 at 6:19 AM UTC
Fine living . . . a la carte?
Come to the Waldorf-Astoria!
LISTEN HUNGRY ONES!
Look! See what Vanity Fair says about the
new Waldorf-Astoria:
"All the luxuries of private home. . . ."
Now, won't that be charming when the last flop-house
has turned you down this winter?
Furthermore:
"It is far beyond anything hitherto attempted in the hotel
world. . . ." It cost twenty-eight million dollars. The fa-
mous Oscar Tschirky is in charge of banqueting.
Alexandre Gastaud is chef. It will be a distinguished
background for society.
So when you've no place else to go, homeless and hungry
ones, choose the Waldorf as a background for your rags--
(Or do you still consider the subway after midnight good
enough?)
ROOMERS
Take a room at the new Waldorf, you down-and-outers--
sleepers in charity's flop-houses where God pulls a
long face, and you have to pray to get a bed.
They serve swell board at the Waldorf-Astoria. Look at the menu, will
you:
GUMBO CREOLE
CRABMEAT IN CASSOLETTE
BOILED BRISKET OF BEEF
SMALL ONIONS IN CREAM
WATERCRESS SALAD
PEACH MELBA
Have luncheon there this afternoon, all you jobless.
Why not?
Dine with some of the men and women who got rich off of
your labor, who clip coupons with clean white fingers
because your hands dug coal, drilled stone, sewed gar-
ments, poured steel to let other people draw dividends
and live easy.
(Or haven't you had enough yet of the soup-lines and the bit-
ter bread of charity?)
Walk through Peacock Alley tonight before dinner, and get
warm, anyway. You've got nothing else to do.
5.7k
i'm a broken compass and a delayed train and a set of faded curtains that don't quite keep the sun out and the glare they make in your eyes, but i love you in ways i don't know how to say.
so you can spill your guts to me and i'll clean them up with rags made of "sorry's" and that won't make it better but at least i'll have tried. i made this mess.
you are gasping for the air that i took from your lungs and my betrayal-bruised hands are much too slow to fill them at the same time i'm trying to patch up the holes.
eventually we lay together in a swallowing and somber silence, too many god **** miles apart, until i break it in half with not-good-enough words that serve as my version of an apology.
but i swear that i will shatter every bone in my legs before i run from you when you need me most and curse at the doubt that plagues my mind like black death.
i will shake my fists and scream obscenities at the uncertainties and banish every "what if" that begs access to my consciousness.
i will slit the throat of yesterday, and watch it bleed out - know you're more than enough for me, and hate myself for the pills in your body.
for you, you, are more than oxygen and no amount of salted regret that pours from my eyes could ever convey the thoughts my lips can't seem to form.
so i am shrunk to a pitiful half-whisper, muttering over and over and over and over, "i'm right here. i'm right here." and somehow we manage to be okay.
- m.f.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC