Known(?)

-
keep you head up
don't you cry
don't you know little girl
you're wasting your time
yes
i know
each salt drop just as unimportant
as the ones that clung to my hair
that day you spun me around in the ocean
telling me about what'd we do one day
and where we would go
each i love you
clinging
like a parasite to me
taking my life away
little
by
little
day
by
day
i can't take it all back
...
i went down to my spot last night
just to think about the world
realizing how small
and empty it was
looking over to crumbling fences
and dipped gravel ground
only to get hit with it
that it's not worth it anymore
nothing i do will ever
be enough for them
or for anyone else
so i hope you're happy now
knowing how i feel
as i figured
you didn't care
and yes i know
im right
so here i am
always writing
so my thoughts don't kill me
before i do
...
if you love something
set it free
if it never comes back
it was never really yours
i let you go
as i firmly believe
you'll be better off
especially without me
the day i knew
you were fine
is when you brought her into it
if i ever mattered
at all
id hope you'd not ever do that
to me
i guess i deserve it
after all
as even though her death was never my fault
i will always feel it was
...
i destroy all i touch
and wont ever say
if im dying inside
as im doing just fine
im sorry to have hurt you
and im sorry to be
me
and not yours
im sorry for it all
but i know you don't care
so go on
sit back in your chair
or your bed
or the bus bench seat
or in the cold grassy field
and know that you've won
im broken
exactly how i deserved to be
...
im sorry

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Anecdote

-
I look back into the void and see a set of eyes looking back Reflecting parts of myself back I had long laid to rest As I no longer feel the need to hide Ineffable is not even close to the word that I feel accurately articulates the way I feel Not lightning  Nor thunder Not flashing Nor light Just warmth.  Like the first real ray of sun cresting the mountain after a long winter, Just subtle wind, winding change, snaking its way through the folds of my own inter-workings Quiet and calm A voice comes through Changing of waves that interlink in a way two long lost puzzle pieces connect You, the final piece of the mosaic, prized, that an artisan has searched high and low for I look forward, seeing myself reflected back in the figure of another How striking, how odd, to feel myself mirrored, How I may be able to speak and be understood, not simply listened to like a record on repeat, How is it possible I come across someone who so closely mirrors the walk I've tread, How have I not...
Read more

Lineal

-
 "Why is it that grief cannot be a straight forward path?" I can't seem to comprehend  An arrow, shot from the bend of a bow is direct, Piercing, pulling, tearing, Slicing its way cleanly from one side to the other of my soul, Just like the day I lost you. What bitter games do the gods play, Is it to their delight to watch me find my way around and around with it? The same way we may observe a dog chasing it's own tail, A silly thing to watch them catch it, only for them to realize it was attached to themselves all along. I can't escape the loss, just like an appendage I feel I've lost, the ghost of sensations that no longer I am able to feel. I grieve an ever distant growing image of you. Like a photograph carefully preserved. I see the corners of your mouth turned up, the way your teeth dance across your lower lip, Hair ruffled in the way only my fingers could've been the cause of. Like the photo that graces the front of an end of life service pamphlet, ...
Read more

Origins

-
 The Deep South, hot, humid and unforgiving, You can see it etched in the faces of those born here, In the face of the farmer, who worked beneath his father and the one before, In the face of the pastor, proclaiming his faith and preaching it out upon his weary congregation, In the face of the grocery store clerk, emptying buggies, greeting each person they meet, In the face of the hardened labor hand, working hard so the mother of his children at home doesn't have to, I see it in myself, In every mirror that hangs in these halls, The lines etched in the same places,  Those of worry, those of fear, those of disparity,  Those of laughter shared, smiles that never quite faded,  This land is tough, so is this town, Each and every one that comes and goes, Yet, it feels so foreign to me. My hands are no longer calloused and rough, The skin on my back has softened, My skin glows white like the moon, Instead of reflecting a tan from the hot summer sun, I am from this red cl...
Read more