These wishes,
they are such things,
beyond precious,
priceless and pointless
they breath for us,
pulse beneath the skin, alive,
fantastical and desperate,
the very essence of being, the reason.
These wishes,
they are such things,
wonderful and terrible
they sustain us, eat away at us,
unattainable in reality
they flirt with us, taunt us,
they are too loud voices
in silent churches,
they are incongruous.
These wishes,
they are such things.
Randomosity
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Poem: Time heals
Enough time has passed now for us to talk about other things and smile.
Every word no longer weighted with your absence, every meal not tasteless.
We have stopped expecting that you will walk in the door,
And there are moments when our thoughts are of something else.
Yesterday I did not cry for you, the first time since.
And it seems that I was wrong, the world kept turning.
I am surprised that the sinking feeling in my stomach has gone,
And my heart still beats, miraculously unbroken.
Having offered up limbs, heart and soul for one moment with you
I have stopped trying to barter in vain with hearing-impaired Gods.
Slowly things are getting better, perhaps we will survive this after all,
And time will turn you into nothing more than reminiscence.
Every word no longer weighted with your absence, every meal not tasteless.
We have stopped expecting that you will walk in the door,
And there are moments when our thoughts are of something else.
Yesterday I did not cry for you, the first time since.
And it seems that I was wrong, the world kept turning.
I am surprised that the sinking feeling in my stomach has gone,
And my heart still beats, miraculously unbroken.
Having offered up limbs, heart and soul for one moment with you
I have stopped trying to barter in vain with hearing-impaired Gods.
Slowly things are getting better, perhaps we will survive this after all,
And time will turn you into nothing more than reminiscence.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Poem: This Girl
She is the bravest person that I have ever met,
Despite the constant quiet fear
That makes her appear wholly unremarkable.
She has a small scar on the side of her wrist
That she finds herself rubbing in times of stress,
A tiny raised knot of flesh that you would not notice.
She has an almost imperceptible dip in her skull
Just beneath the line of her hair,
That she imagines aches constantly.
She has thin silver marks on her forearms
Indirect reference to old hurts
That well up unexpectedly to choke her.
She has astonishing reserves of bravery
That she uses to wake up every morning
And live as a part of the world.
She has a bitter understanding of cruelty
That she cannot help but replay
In the faces of prospective friendships.
She has nothing untainted by bad black memories
That she does not allow herself to think about
But which have distorted everything.
Despite the constant quiet fear
That makes her appear wholly unremarkable.
She has a small scar on the side of her wrist
That she finds herself rubbing in times of stress,
A tiny raised knot of flesh that you would not notice.
She has an almost imperceptible dip in her skull
Just beneath the line of her hair,
That she imagines aches constantly.
She has thin silver marks on her forearms
Indirect reference to old hurts
That well up unexpectedly to choke her.
She has astonishing reserves of bravery
That she uses to wake up every morning
And live as a part of the world.
She has a bitter understanding of cruelty
That she cannot help but replay
In the faces of prospective friendships.
She has nothing untainted by bad black memories
That she does not allow herself to think about
But which have distorted everything.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Poem: Now and Then
What are we now, after all of this is put to bed, wrapped up neatly, blonde curls in pink bows.
Look at us, we are a picture in a storybook.
I still mean all of my smiles but when I am sad, oh it hurts.
How it still hurts.
I’ve counted them, one to ten, we do not talk about six, the worst time, the deepest one
Not that I am blaming, those were difficult times for all of us, it’s just the age thing separates me.
Mostly it is a thing that happened, a once upon a time that spills out of me when I’ve been drinking,
Mostly it is nothing worth relating.
I can’t do that kind of closeness but who needs it anyway, most people are pointlessly ordinary,
I do not answer when you ask me about relationships bar an aside, something trite and glib that makes me seem
selfish instead of broken, just these little things,
What might have been, a sometimes lonely, an impossible longing
And no tears left for anything,
Which is sad in itself, I suppose.
It faded like you promised me, but still just numbed, just numb.
Still waiting.
Look at us, we are a picture in a storybook.
I still mean all of my smiles but when I am sad, oh it hurts.
How it still hurts.
I’ve counted them, one to ten, we do not talk about six, the worst time, the deepest one
Not that I am blaming, those were difficult times for all of us, it’s just the age thing separates me.
Mostly it is a thing that happened, a once upon a time that spills out of me when I’ve been drinking,
Mostly it is nothing worth relating.
I can’t do that kind of closeness but who needs it anyway, most people are pointlessly ordinary,
I do not answer when you ask me about relationships bar an aside, something trite and glib that makes me seem
selfish instead of broken, just these little things,
What might have been, a sometimes lonely, an impossible longing
And no tears left for anything,
Which is sad in itself, I suppose.
It faded like you promised me, but still just numbed, just numb.
Still waiting.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)