Discussion in 'Poet's Corner' started by Pink Teardrops, Jun 7, 2014.

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  1. Pink Teardrops

    Pink Teardrops Well-Known Member

    There is nothing I can say, safely.
    there are changes and motions and stillness
    that have left me naked and stripped to my bare organs;
    the heart being the evident one.
    what can I do now with this?
    dress myself up?
    keep all hope down?
    there is no home yet. no place, no heartbeat, no whisper.
    I have buried this many times,
    it resurfaces as if it was a gore tale.
    It comes out, almost shining its light
    to face my own little darkness.
    I hate that I love.
    yet I live because of it.
    I re-member, and arrange and continue,
    awake, barely.
    trying to weigh my feet down I find myself,
    after all these years.
    No more an angel I wish to be;
    but I still wonder, I still look at the sky.
    You know? I still write, how ironic.
    I still am who I was,
    but less. much less.
    and with it I have not become more.
    I use the word I still.
    (is it even considered a word?)
    I battle my thoughts with your logic.
    I silence my own naive narrative,
    who knows why I am even allowing it.
    I question my intention every step of every way,
    even though I have no way.
    Lost as it were, moving slowly,
    in rhythm with the desire of not wanting more distance.
    I died. I did die.
    Just like love I still try to resurface.
    Every so often I smile. bot not for long.
    not an adult smile.
    because there is no real reason to.
    not with a broken heart.
    a heart that should be empty by now.
    but it is full,
    of you.
    And I carry that weight, that life that never happened.
    That night, that day, that phrase, that word, that whisper,
    that imagined touch,
    I re-live it to live.
    I have yet to get sick of it.
    at least as much as it got sick of me.
    Last edited by a moderator: Jun 7, 2014
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