it’s been eleven years
and I still haven’t writtenthat poemabout yousleepingin an old wooden chair maybe tomorrow…
“Please don’t leave me,”
they whimpered. I left anyways.
I said I would miss you
when I crawled into my bed…I’m in my bed now.
Feel the determination crumble
and dissipate like a dried leaf, kicked about in the cold autumn breeze. Set a fire, and inhale the smoke to supplement a sense of self. Down a glass, to put you to bed, as the seasons change, so must your priorities, your sense of comfort, your sources of energy. Now put the pen down […]
a swift and nimble navigation of the repressed
resulted in a confrontation with a thoughtbred by desireseemingly contradictoryto my ownsense of right and wrong exeunt
a trivial travesty
a table turnedbridges burnedthrough addictive maladycommon flaws are what separate uscommon flaws are what create uscommon flaws are what sustain usentertain us
I’m scared of what I might find
if I dig deep inside myselfor deep inside your self
I’m sorry ***,
I never realizedwhat I meant to you. What you’ve done to meand what I’ve done to youis joyis painthere was weaknessand there was hopethere was sorrybut lots of joy.It hurts to moveit hurts to thinkof youwithout you.But sometimesthere’s more solacein the sanctuaryof solitude
I cannot manage the issue at hand
my sheets are dampbut that chill is nothingcompared tothe specters of memoryand delusions grantedby the unintelligible desireI must cut this poem shortand close my eyesand try to sleepbefore grieftakes me over
When it hurts to breathe
it’s time to go to sleep.
