"routinely" poems
Don't mistake survival for happiness,
Read behind the eyes,
Read between the lines,
Don't ask for an open mind,
What's inside isn't all it seems,
Take the smile as a gospel truth,
Accept normality as a guide of peace
Be appeased the simple things are easy,
The daily routine is routinely pacifying.
All I ask as I carry on keeping on,
Remember the fight I engaged to be here,
To remain here, to stand not flee,
I will not ask for concern, just remember.
Please just remember I am still fighting.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
There’s a lot to be said for this place.
A near-perfect pitch for diversity,
Diversity: a neurolinguistic term;
A quaint way to say: miscegenation.
No, just kidding; I meant the melting ***
A fine blend of Anglo, Hispanic & Indian blood—
That’s Pueblo & Plains Indian blood--
Not that **** masala, chapati & dal Indian blood.
My apologies to "Who's the White Guy?" Bobby Jindal.
New Mexico: “The Land of Enchantment.”
Where 310 sunny days per annum,
Are like money in the bank, earning
Double-plus compound interest for those
Suffering with seasonal affective disorders.
A land of sunshine without the orange juice,
But substitute chili, red or green?
An equitable offset to be sure.
310 days of sunshine:
Even the white people are brown here.
Which does a lot for my self-esteem.
Back east—New York, Chicago & Philadelphia e.g.—
People that look like me, i.e.,
People with dark brown hair, eyes and skin,
Get stopped/ass-cheek spread/& frisked, routinely.
Stop & Frisk: NYPD’s spectator sport for decades.
Stop & Frisk: Mayor Bloomberg-defended
Crime-stopping Godsend,
Getting guns off the streets.
Getting homicides down.
Everything’s cool until some slick race baiter,
Starts yelling: RACIAL PROFILING.
Forget for a moment that people that look like me,
People like me with dark hair, eyes & skin,
Commit 78% of the crime in most cities.
“It’s not racially driven profiling,”
Said Newark’s police director recently
Referring to stops carried out by his officers.
“IT’S CRIME-DRIVEN PROFILING!”
But, again, political-correctness trumps common sense:
August 2013: Judge Rules NYPD
Stop-and-Frisk Unconstitutional.
Well I’ll be a monkey’s *** ******
I moved to New Mexico to blend in.
My complexion a shoe-in for
The Witness Protection Program or
Any other public or private,
Domestic or international rendition site.
But I digress.
New Mexico: no passport necessary, Babaloo!
New Mexico: be you white or black, Hispanic or Indian,
Or even Roswell extraterrestrial,
The cops here will beat the **** out of you.
Or shoot you dead, Kemosabe.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
Far away in the castle,
Your revered echelon,
Your pure majestic skin,
And your untainted generous heart,
Have become the most appealing living things I've ever seen,
Royal blood and Highness' sweetheart,
But I'm just a wretched citizen,
Routinely as a blacksmith,
Single bread and rocking chair,
Destitution and poverty-stricken,
I have never been complaining the way the God treats me,
To me it is just enough to get to see your beauty and hearty at the same time,
The folks were saying that you are the descending angel,
Spreading your wings over the entire people's heart,
Sending the warmth with a hug,
Delivering the happiness with a deed,
They feel safe,
I feel safe too,
But feel sad a little,
For just because I'm a blacksmith.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
If you were literature
I'd tattoo you all over me
and let you seep through my skin
filling my veins with your words.
There are a lot of pieces that make up the English language:
capitals, semicolons, that ******* Oxford comma
but you,
you give english a definition.
Love, when you speak to me
I see the word bubbles levitating above your head
pinning down each sentence with fragments of your voice
your lips form stories,
the kind I actually like reading
the poems that leave me wanting more
and trust me
I DO WANT MORE.
But I'm Dr. Suess
and you are Shakespear.
I'm sorry, I'm not what you deserve
that my lines are crooked
and pages wrinkled
that you deserve heavenly white sheets
to share the curvature of your letters with
If only I could hold the spiral notebook that is you
caress your leather cover
I would whisper all the definitions
inscribed in my brain associated with your existence,
trying to untangle the string of words you knotted.
But reality isn't written.
I cannot serenade you with my words
you will forever be on top of this modern caste system
and there are no ladders
how can I talk to you at a football game
when you're the one on the field
that today is survival of the fittest,
if someone were to take you into their arms
it would boost their reputation,
but you are not my reputation
You are the language I want to speak
You are the lyrics to every song
You are all my favorite words.
And yes, I may just be the
routinely period at the end of your sentences
and the chances of being with you shouldn't even be considered
"chances"
but since someone such as you exists,
I can promise.
I can promise you
all these imperfect sweet nothings
until my pen runs out of ink.
Always.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
the Hail Mary transgression:
falling in love with me when it crosses over the line
*guilty of the same, so even when I condemn the errant woman,
with an ice block from a Northeastern pond of no soft forgiveness,
which is still and yet, the only cutoff ending appropriate
but you woman, deserve to learn that
emboldened fantasy that crosses broken bold lines,
is a jagged rot that doesn’t cure the dreamy unreality of
the-cannot-be,
it’s pouring hot water on scalding burns entrenched
guess time to share that your fantasy is the
number one commandment
that this boy also violates routinely so he has a phd of experience,
and the burn proofs when he thot he too could be,
Cervantes, the knight errant, lover of the impossible woman
I, guilty as charged by “The Duke,” am an idealist and bad poet,
so many poet-women here I secret cherish at levels that are nonsensical, absurd, ludicrous
and hold the fantastical fantasty of them dear,
so close and so near, so mine
wrote them each love poems, and they know it,
now, here, in my confessional booth,
my priestly punishment always the same,
ten thousand Hail Mary’s,
but I cheat the cohen priest,
and just write another poem,*
this one is about the line that never can could will be
crossed, hail mary!
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 11:48 AM UTC
I watch as I always do,
you, running your brush
routinely through your hair.
"you're gonna hate me when I leave.."
Loose hairs falling to the floor..
You laugh, as you always do
I feel your smile against my lips..
"you're gonna hate me when I leave.."
she pulls loose hair from between our mouths.
I watch, as I hate to,
you sitting cross-legged, packing your suitcase.
**** another one..you're gonna hate me when I leave"
A single loose hair falls;
and disappears, like she did.
Loose hair on a pillow that was hers
and I hate that she left.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
Parallel to the storm
my beast of a motorcycle
paired with the sharp edged sensations
complimenting me with backfire
as the October cold meets my desire
to detour off my daily route
with a demand for an early rise
In the mirror I see a home
where I belong
where my lover is waiting with warmth
but for now
the cold is my journey
cruising with the noise of the roaring tires
the power of the horses
and the God-like cylinders demanding spark
shaking me and my world
while they routinely
explode petrol beneath my feet
like a heartbeat
that reminds me
- I am alive
as I pass the bridge over the frozen lake
a frozen thought melts and finds a way
from my heart to my mind
that taking comfort kills me
journeys are the only reminder
that I have lived
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 5:02 PM UTC
How Poets routinely tell lies or truth with great "sincerity"
and earnest projections of "poetic charisma" and lashings
of "who me tell lies?".
and yet they routinely avoid truthfulness, in case they forget the power of lies and truth, in their search for fame.
Mesmerised by its attendant celebrity groupmind and of course its wealth..
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truthfulness
has nothing to do with truth.
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truth
is a lie and a lie is truth,
two sides of a darkened mirror
and both are equally valueless
except for seeing false faces in..
Poets bleat on about how the shackleable object of their 'love' ,
she or he, are not theirs to own
or categorise or monopolise.
yet they keep on expecting full submission
and just getting an empty back,
and a disappearing set of footprints.
Like the sheep and goats that Poets are,
they bleat on endlessly
about their wants their wants their wants.
They want fame as Poets--disguised as distribution deals.
They want contracts to produce garbage for HallMark--as if..
They want **** licking critical acclaim--from **** licking critics.
They want international poetry prizes from aesthetic morons--
wearing Armani suits.
They want Groupies--but not *******
They want Media eulogies--but not truthfulness.
Always are they deliberately forgetting that
"you cant always get what you want".
The last thing that Poets want is what they need most of all.
They really need
An end to the narcissism of those
that want to be called "poet"--in your dreams.
An end to the juvenile arrogance that motivates them to put up strings
of meaningless associated words
and vainly call them poems.
An end to childish immaturity, and inchoate meandering
through other peoples words and experiences, stealing others lives
and characters.
Always incessantly pretending that because
they can read the words of others
that they have also shared their experiences--indeed their experience was deeper wider higher.
In another day and age of non-violent sensibility
these kind of Poets would
be called thieves and liars.
In this day and age they scribble emotional garbage
and pretend its "poetry"--encouraged by intellectual follies.
As poets they have become walking proto cash registers.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin is Spanish for without.
Poets are SIN integrity.
Poets are SIN Truthfulness.
Poets are SIN decency.
Poets are SIN.
Im so glad I could never be mistaken for a Poet.
Wouldnt want to be mistaken as a poet.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
Put on the old LPs tonight, Alex,
from a time long before you were born.
Top of the queue was Petula Clark
belting out Don't Give Up,
defiant as an alley cat in a street fight.
Remembered how in her heyday,
she'd been forced to conceal
the fact that she was married ---
all performers being mysteriously
virginal in those days.
Thoughts segue several years
to my time in the service and
a female lieutenant who was my OIC.
Served a 20 year career,
but never knew a finer officer.
She realized leadership was saying
the things that made you want to follow.
Just after making captain,
due to pregnancy, she was forced
to terminate her service career.
Today, women routinely travel in space,
perform extreme surgeries,
design skyscrappers;
one just might become president.
And somewhere in the tenements of NYC
a young poet spins metaphor
straight from the streets and the cosmos,
constructing a world in lines
we'd all wish to enter.
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 2:22 AM UTC
Some decades back, in actual fact,
Being heard was feared.
Corded phones and dial tones
Were oft routinely cleared;
The worry was a 'wire-tap',
Domestic speech taboo.
The rumor was, in essence, that
If said, the White House knew.
Nowadays, this fear we lack,
And cheerfully obey.
Now we ask, "Hey, wire-tap,
What's the weather like today?"
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 1:01 PM UTC
Sometime after mid night, it had rained
Putting out summer’s sultry heat
The sky had its face washed clean
And wiped the grime off Earth’s soiled feet
The dawn is quietly breaking
Night lights still glimmer here and there
The blue firmament remains cloudless
And cool is the mild blowing air
The sleeping town is slowly waking up
And at this transitional point
I look out into the street
To see a sight that shall never disappoint
Along the road moves one, ragged and withered
His discolored white hair left unkempt
With hunch back and drooping shoulders
The marks Time has left of the hard years spent
Though age has drained his life sap away
He has a firm resolve never to beg
His frail body supported on a stick
Serves as a veritable third leg
With his staff, he perseveringly stirs
Every heap of abandoned *******
Indiscriminately piled on either side of the road
Hunting for trinkets lying hidden in the trash
A rag picker with a sack on his back
Picking up today’s treasure
From yesterday’s discarded trash
Things, for him ‘priceless’ beyond measure
With complaints none
He faces life and its trials
Never losing the glitter in his eyes
Though a loner in life’s dark isles
I ask myself, why every day
I routinely look for this man who limps along
And I get a quick answer
‘He helps you turn your sobs into a song’
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 6:33 AM UTC
Daddy belongs to
an exclusive club,
out beyond
the rules of atmospheric
pressure.
On our precocious little fingers
we count,
on tracer paper
Mommy checks our figures.
Being she was never clever
with math,
she consults with the slide rule.
No crystal ball needed,
we all know where Daddy's been:
at the apogee of his ride,
hanging out in zero orbit,
checking
on his own figures.
He must be
lonely up there, fishing off the dock of a satellite,
until the moment he reels one in.
He does his best philandering
once we've shuffled off to school
and Mommy's found her solace
underneath
the hairdryer.
She's stopped looking up
at night
to observe the starry heavens.
They only made her cry,
which, in turn, made us cry— for her.
One time we heard Mommy tell Daddy
she knew all about his long division
and how he misused
his slipstick.
With the cruel turn of a smile
he reminded her
her math is routinely
wrong.
"Usually...but not always,"
Mommy whispers in her sleep.
Tomorrow is lift off again
for Daddy,
hunting exponentials
from
heavenly bodies.
For us,
the ones left behind in the wake
of his rocket trail,
it's
addition by subtraction.
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 11:46 PM UTC
I am a certified expert in the sequential pushing of buttons,
this pushing performed, on a good day, in concert with the
expensively purchased, somewhat rare mental model of
the workings of a recently commonplace variety of machine
dependent at its core on the minuscule presence of increasingly-rare
earth metals allowing for the conditional flow of groups of electrons.
These machines, like their precursors, are further dependent on
the supply of slightly less increasingly rare combustible material
for which armed conflicts are routinely fought and many have died.
My interest in the machines began at an early age,
enticed by the illusion of control, and on the whole,
I think, motivated by the idea that these machines
processing information, the core mechanism of reality,
might be used to create understanding.
In the interceding years, it is increasingly apparent to me
that while some are used for this purpose, most,
like most things around me, are controlled and engaged by
multi-personed organisms concerned primarily with:
1) self-preservation AND
2) the collection of, and limited divestment of,
unit notions of rarefied value, insured by the
existence of another similar organism valued for its
1) self- and nearby-environs preservation AND
2) recent track record of insuring continued relatively easy access
to the aforementioned important combustible materials.
—it is generally considered to people's credit that this notion
of value is thus-derived and no longer as frequently derived by virtue
of possessing a metal which, while of certain non-combustible use,
is basically just pretty rare and really, really shiny.
I find myself again shortly in a need of convincing such an organism
that my button pushing is of sufficient quality,
on sufficiently frequent good days,
that it should consider me a temporary part thereof and divest,
of itself to me, sufficient units of value that I might happily
continue to push buttons on its behalf in the pursuit of further units.
I am, for some reason, somewhat less than thrilled with this prospect
finding it, despite its marketability, a maybe less than important enterprise.
I am existentially concerned by the idea that my whole value may derive
from my button pushing, and is thus further dependent on
the availability of rare-earth metal and also-rare combustibles.
In some delusion of importance amongst 7 billion plus similar primates
and a unfathomably vast universe,
I thought you might be interested to know
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
In the days of seafaring yore, in a candied littoral time, my parents shared a love for wingsails; propelling their craft on the surface of gentle waters.
It was here my father navigated me into existence, by taking my mother for a long enchanted boat ride.
And like a hook and eye, they so clasped and rowed into the boundless deep. The tender rhythm of their waves stirring a rivulet that would come to be called me.
Floating in this colostrum bed underneath the heart's thicket, I settled to sleep; dreaming of cradle song and breastmilk.
My unborn hands and feet routinely practiced swimming toward the open shore; until that day when a familial voice called.
And there in the dilation of a growing current, I sprang forth; thirsting for their love from my very first cry.
Feb 24, 2022
Feb 24, 2022 at 7:15 PM UTC
I step outside your front door
And immediately my whole body goes numb
I can feel my skin rising up as the first goose bumps form.
The journey to the car seems all too short and familiar.
Every step and inch closer makes my heart ache to collapse
There is emptiness in your eyes
As you routinely hug us goodbye
Why can you not face me or them or her?
Those three words are cancer to your tongue.
If only you knew,
If only anyone knew
that the second your out of sight
I begin to tremble and fight to choke back my fears
Silently tears stream down my face,
One after another, never ceasing to stop.
For each tear,
I wish and pray
That everything would just go away
I need a new beginning
I need a new homecoming.
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 8:39 PM UTC
I respect my body.
The same way I respect my house.
My red brick skin
Blushed with flowing blood
From my space-heater heart
My air-conditioner lungs I have routinely maintained
With long drawn out breathes of cool wind
I have protected my house with toxic pockets
Of termite poison
To protect my wooden frame
And I hang up pictures of love ones with
Nails inside tattoo guns that spell out their names
And I paint my home’s walls with different shades
Of colors to bring out its ascetic value
Like how I use blue eye-shadow so my guests
Can better see my eyes, bright blue
I eat vitamins like I vacuum my carpet
Cleaning up and persevering its worth
The ting-tang sound of a working vacuum
Paralleling the pitter-patter of those circular pills
As they fall down my throat
I seasonally change out my couches and my chairs
When I go to my mirror and tie-up my hair
A different look for a different season
Because my house deserves a separate look too
For when it feels the wind changing
And like myself my house would rather not be bare
So I dress it in marigolds and poppy flowers
And ivy that I have to cut down when I notice it growing too fast
Because like my house I am too beautiful to be covered completely
Each shrub I trim another inch of skin I can share
And I respect it when I get home
I say just a little bit
More skin at the top
To show off my brick house.
May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012 at 1:27 PM UTC
From home in the morning,
I take the bus routinely
As often as the sun rises
Or as I, asleep, assume it rises
Behind the veil of Washington's overcast
But today I am awake for it all
And watch the caravan of I-5
Puttering in inches, billowing exhaust
As I imagine the dust kicked by as many oxen
All hoping to reach the Emerald City
But some of them don't make it
Or decide to settle elsewhere
Sometimes even my fellow passengers are lost
Perhaps they've gone to malaria or the pox
And I pray I'll see them again tomorrow
For when the sun goes down
Or I assume it does as my eyes close
We've drunk the waters of that Platonic river
That as far as I remember begins with an L
And, reincarnated, come back up as always
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 4:33 PM UTC
Realization Alliteration Poem
4/23/2013
Radical reforms
Revealed and revered
Reveled in without reserve
Reject rest until wrongs righted
Resistance looks radiant red like radishes
Recently reequipped with righteousness reacting like radiation
Rowdy crowds race like rabbits to meeting rooms
Rain and rapiers can't quell rampaging rallies without recourse
Reserves have been replicated, ready to razzle and rebuke, revenge
Reclaim rusted roofs of the ruins, wrecked in rural rubble's roots
Reality's reign can't be reversed so remember it, refuse to relive it
Run from its reach, relying on the rare reward you've received, a refuge
Recognize that regimes rotate routinely like roadkill riding on rail-cars drinking with rancid rats
Reach for the receiver, become a redeemer, referee your own rehab, require resolute ripples - realization.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 3:12 AM UTC
Powder likes to echo in
deep sized capsules,
a string of jittering beads
lolling behind husk's
browned paper.
Her John peeks through
open clam stockings in
routinely bites,
eating while *******
Olives and skin
grease as lingering perfume,
the sores of last month's bills
strutting in the dark.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 6:37 PM UTC
Routinely lark, though this day depth therein
bemused as why the warbling fluter turned
instilled and sung laments, residing within
and perched unkind; that brittler branches - spurned.
Melodic angst has never sprung so dim
and tunes of fathomed trebles; parted love?
Perchance the ballad pours a swansong hymn;
and from aloft the skies - returns a dove.
If song an' bird be taken dazed with stars
beliefs contort and bowing strings apart
nor stealth be known as fervent dwells the scars,
though bleak the lust for any other heart.
O' feathered, pennate cherub play her whim!
Remain upon the sill and bygones swim.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 1:33 PM UTC
Cosplay Human
the art or practice of wearing costumes to portray characters from fiction, especially from manga, animation, and science fiction; a skit featuring these costumed characters
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
this cosplay of human we so oft effect,
movie projection of shaped variations,
semi-firm but mostly pliant,
bone not-so-hard-as-we-believe,
draped in skins of tissue pre-perforated,
we are forms that can last a century,
yet shrivel back to fetus in days,
for lack of simple water...
think human and know simultaneous,
billions of earth persona and
billions of cells in each
*by for of -
the people,*
each masked, each outfitted
in uniforms of differentiating gaps
more alike, all unique,
masses of differences of constructs same,
this cosplay is a preeminent miracle...
all of us
nakedly similar,
all naturally defiant of time,
all defeated by time, naturally...
this skit we play routinely,
costumed in a manner similar,
yet different, to distinguish ourselves,
and mark as group members
pretending to
vive la différence!
what import all this, pretty words
that tell us what we know instinctively?
just this...
I see you
perhaps you see me
changing my costume
not by choice,
still do not wear a
masque
my cells my words,
no cosplay,
my humanity on parade,
my file open to inspection
dare you visit the beginning,
when passion drove me,
the early version,
when I was not circumspect,
and my poems
were passion plays,
verifiable truths
and cosplay was not
part of my vocabulary
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
Marble black bark grow bed sheets of parchment attached by
strings. Spillage of pink arises from the abdomen. Fused clothing fibers substitute layers of bark.........
The vivid aroma of rot and feasting maggots harmonize...............
A cadaver drilled by burrowing insects. Beetles, flies, pismires, and parallels. A carcass crammed with 200 seeds. Bulbous seeds in the nose. Deposited bulbs rooted in brain tissue. Thick specks of white nuzzle into flesh emerge. Squirm out of the cubicles. Insects feasting simultaneously............
A figure emerges from the edge of perception. Routinely gorging the cadavers vital delicacies. Amid spouts of fainting spells.......................
Grabbing lumps of brain matter. Shoveling it towards his gaping hole. Ravenously consuming the bland ashen chunks. Gripping the cranium and sipping the diluted ***
Sliding two slippery marbles into his gullet. Then suddenly publicizing his medals amid his fangs. Deteriorating into slush immediately........
Piercing the stationary ticker with talons. Shortly guzzling the dense scarlet metallic droplets. Promptly the sticky liquid cerise matter slithered into his craw. Hurling the white speckled rims simultaneously in glee. Than consuming the exterior synthetic.........
The corpse is convulsing..wheezing..........chest withering in pain. Man devours his own living corpse, neglecting to swallow his toes. A daily phenomenon……to devour yourself.
What of the toes? Looted by a motivated businessman the next day. “Oh the painstaking horror of humanities hunger,” the motivated businessman then asserted into thin air.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 6:53 PM UTC
I don't want
to be striking, I don't want to be
mesmerizing
and please do not throw “hot” at me
.
I don't want
the recognition you give
those girls, so easily
so routinely
.
.
so frequently
.
tell me your reason for this
all of it
maybe it's good
.
probably it's devastating
.
and maybe I won't question anymore
I'll stop challenging
I'll giggle and agree
(like you want)
I'll be so very much like those
remarkable girls
.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
I get roped in,
I get caught every time.
The smell of bait is always attracting like a word’s next rhyme.
And I can’t seem to get out of this trap I find myself in so often,
All I need is a glance, a smile, a touch, and I find myself in this coffin.
You see, I write about these things so routinely.
It takes up all my emotion,
And my thoughts are formed obscenely.
I am either running
From the things I dream at night
Or dwelling in my sleep
Until I can't stand my waking self.
My character seems to hang by a thread’s might,
And I now see it lacks in wealth.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 12:56 PM UTC
When I was young and lonely,
yet wise enough,
I'd slipped off my skin and held it out to you
and you accepted it. I'd been left with bare bones, then.
And as I handed over my lips and eyebrows and fingernails,
You accepted those, too.
Next I'd slipped out my heart and offered you it,
But you refused to take it, and so
I'd realised I was left without a coat
in the cold winter's blight.
Nothing but a skeleton, as frostbite
bit at me and I'd stood shivering,
my skin in your hands,
my heart in mine.
The wind hit my back and sent through me shudders
and I pleaded for you to give back what had once been mine.
But you just stood with eyes like glass, and wordlessly
you let me know it was helpless.
One by one, I felt my bones begin to freeze
from my toes and swiftly traveling up.
I couldn't tell then if my shaking came from cold
or if it was the blizzard of emotions burying me.
At my fingertips I could sense
the heart which I still cradled in my hands start to grow rigid
and it's beating grew ever more mechanical,
losing all energy and life,
working routinely and with passion gone.
Time stopped altogether and we stood, unmoving.
A fleeting warmth, a single hot tear—
it barely left my eye before becoming solid.
And the silence broke with the sound of your footsteps
but there I stayed in stunned paralysis,
my eyes locked on the remains of me
that you had ****** at my feet
and the cold heart I still held.
I picked myself up and slipped me back on,
the same as I had been before.
But my heart I kept frozen, though now it's aware
and I won't make that misstep again.
With a heart not my own, I'll continue,
untrusting—
the only part of you I let myself keep.
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 6:55 PM UTC