I still wonder how you could just sit there laughing
Watching my soul break in half
So long blinded from braving your darkness
I loved you at your worst, when it was the hardest
And I gave you my all, I tore down my own walls
Still you do nothing while I still fall
Now I try to love again, with an empty being
Passions extinguished from the images I keep seeing
Your lips locked in his, my shattered heart in your palm
Storms surrounding as I still keep you in the calm
My elements were never a match for you
Especially as you can’t comprehend the damage you can do
You don’t understand the extent of your own force
Dulled by the control of your thoughts
Your heart is mighty, your soul a match for no other
Why do you think people can’t handle you? Still, I took you as my lover
And despite it all, in spite of those years
I will never regret the rivers of tears it caused
Engulfed by your flame, with no protection at all
I miss the pain, I still want to hold you in your darkness
But I don’t think I was ever strong enough to last this
I would still love you at your darkest, while you learn to accommodate your Demons
I’d still provide my world for you to bleed in
Even though the pain won’t fade,
no one could ever love me your way.
Archive for May, 2015
And I told you once to make a choice, as I later told myself
And I told you what would happen before there was a tale to tell.
So I knew a time when you didn’t exist, and the history we share yet don’t
And I can’t but seem to shift when you leave, so I won’t
I move beyond grey boundaries for you to remain among the scattered dreams in my night sky
And I kept you in my arms, our skin touched all the while
Then the distant moon announces the arrival of night, as day bows to the setting Sun
And if there were two, for me it seems but one
And then we sink back into the readily available transaction with the practice of an out grown demeanour
As the intensity of the preservation of the colours of dawn have been woven in to the thread count in the red blanket, holding tight the sleeping dreamer
We have slipped away from something that could never be firmly grasped
Housed outside the Palace in the flames, frame dripping with molten glass
Breaking my own heart with boundaries designed to protect it
essentially pushing people away so I don’t cling to them
Yet still my hands grip something I can’t even handle
So I fall from grace to the grave
With little left of my soul left to save
A slave to my own mind, when I think I’ve got all worked out, or at least a tiny bit
I open my eyes to the reality of it
That I had the kind I desired, I wasn’t happy with the still
too afraid to let go, run with it
so the passion I killed
I wonder if it’ll grow, or now if it has gone
I wonder now if I’ve been holding on to long
I stop wondering, falling that little farther down
Switching to the silence of the darkness
The only constant I’ve found
“Fragmented sense of self”
what the hell does that even mean?
Like fragnented grammar, when it underlines in Green?
There is no option to correct,
No option to ignore
So do we just walk the rest of our days being several versions of ourselves
Or living like there are parts of our souls we don’t own?
Is that it?
Is it that those parts, those fragments were lost so we must create extra parts of ourselves, or why it feels sometimes like you’re waiting for someone else to do it, when no one else can?
“Fragmented sense of self”…
I understand everyone doubts themselves
Is it that we aren’t sure who we are?
I know I wake up some days,
on those I make it to looking in the mirror I don’t recognise who I see
I think to myself, what happened to me?
Like I don’t own this face, this body isn’t mine
Was there a swap I wasn’t conscious for at some point down the line?
Is it just the way things are?
I wonder often if it will be the same
Lack of feeling like I know who I really am
Filling the space with emotional debris
Or anything else to hand
I moved past the hour with what I thought might be the infinite assurance, decisive in movements of passion
Picking up my calligraphy pen, inserting the red ink cartridge into the 3mm tip I began writing a tale of the present, one I had received yet not realised.
With each stroke I kept my eye on the current word forming.
First writing of the Sun dawning with each new day.
I held focus, words joined to form lines, lines to form stanzas.
I simply couldn’t stop.
No hesitation was held, I glanced not to the previously written nor to the soon to be filled space, understanding the importance of it all, each line had its place.
The page filled slowly, red adorning the off white backdrop of the poor quality paper notebook I purchased from Wilkinson’s the day before.
When satisfied I had documented all I could, I placed the pen on the desk.
My eyes followed the lines down the page, taking in what was written. Closing the book I walked away.
Two weeks passed, I returned to those words.
Opening the first pages with anticipation my eyes feasted upon, not clearly scribed strokes of a blood red ink, instead pages upon sheets of red blotches.
Soaked, cut to the bone, off white edged with pinkish hues.
I felt my heart jump up to my throat as I cried, I mourned the loss of these words, grieving for a piece of my soul I knew I could never reclaim.
It was gone, this page, the next page, the next page were all I had left of what I had so carefully, painstakingly written.
Eventually the tears stopped, they dried on my cheek. Salty residue marking the sharp pangs of pain for what I believed had been my greatest accomplishment.
Sitting, the hours passed, day turned to night. Picking up my pen there was nothing I could write, blocked by the question “What is the point in writing again?”
“What if the same thing happens, what then?”
I closed the book, walked away.
Two weeks passed until I returned to my desk to view those sheets holding nothing but the evidence of a bleeding heart.
I opened the notebook to set my eyes upon the mess, the pointless mess I was left with.
Yet this is not what I saw, the pages were covered with the blotches, the evidence of the red ink cartridge.
Rubbing my eyes in disbelief, closing them, opening them, closing them, opening them. I saw beauty, I saw reds fading to pinks, a sky at dawn with clouds scattered across it. I saw shapes of passion and love, I saw creation instead of destruction.
Breathing in, leaning back, smoked one cigarette.
I looked again, the beauty remained, I breathed one heavy sigh of relief.
A smile spread across my face, I picked up that calligraphy pen with the red ink and the 3mm nib, I wrote.
I began writing a tale of the present, one I had received yet not realised.
With each stroke I kept my eye on the current word forming.
First writing of the Sun dawning with each new day.
I held focus, words joined to form lines, lines to form stanzas.
I simply couldn’t stop.
No hesitation was held, I glanced not to the previously written nor to the soon to be filled space, understanding the importance of it all, each line had its place.
Twiistd Progress 