"upkeeping" poems
around me i see the world
it is not as you might think
it is an illusion.
at first, where you might see its beauty and life,
i see a world of pain,
a world of deceit and suffering.
past cafes i walk, a spy in a foreign world,
couples huddled together upkeeping the illusion that love is real,
needlessly trusting eachother when they both know the pain to come.
children laughing and playing
unaware of the suffering they will have to endure
in later life.
if they live to see later life,
that is.
some do not,
they see like i do:
aware of the pain they are in.
wishing to end it.
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 6:25 AM UTC
The house that I live in was built from scratch
with the door painted red,
and the memories to match.
The bricks and mortar line the porch like veins;
Each connected to the other like rain drops on my window pane.
Doorknobs of crystal, sit shattered, upon my red door,
so, sadly, no one cares to come inside anymore.
The inside is dreary,
with deep shades of gray,
and writing on the wall that's starting to fade.
Words, once printed so clearly,
that explain just how it all ended up this way.
It's sad really, when you think about it enough;
before the crystal doorknobs on the front door were broken
these rooms were filled with people
who were all just so preoccupied to look up.
The stair case, it leans, like the intoxicated version of myself.
Unable to hold the weight of anything more than itself.
I haven't been up there in years,
in fear that if I try
the climb might collapse
and I don't think I'd be able to escape with my life.
The rooms on the bottom floor are all molded to to ceiling
from years of water damage and no proper upkeeping.
There's nothing in them anymore since my roommates vacated,
so the rooms sit abandoned, black, and vacant.
The hallway is lined with old frames;
pictures of memories, faded, from better days.
They're falling apart, wood splitting and broken.
Who are these people in these photos, and do they remember me anymore?
In the kitchen, the sink, sits piled with dishes.
Even if I chose to wash them, there's no water to do it.
From inside, there's only one happy place.
I sit behind the front door and watch as the dawn breaks.
The sunshine bleeds through and the colors come dancing.
At dawn, every morning, from inside my house
there's a split second of happiness when the sun comes around.
It's all I look forward to, surrounded by this mess.
When the sun goes away, I turn my back to the door
and I realize, I'll be stuck inside these four walls forever more.
It's a surprise to say this house is still standing.
It should have given way years ago like the others around it.
I can't rebuild, cause what would that make me?
How could I ever bear to tear apart the house that is me?
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 10:06 AM UTC