“I used to think love was two people sucking
on the same straw to see whose thirst was stronger,
but then I whiffed the crushed walnuts of your nape,
traced jackals in the snow-covered tombstones of your teeth.
I used to think love was a non-stop saxophone solo
in the lungs, till I hung with…
Wrecked. That’s what I am. But not in it’s traditional, late-adolecent sense. Nor should it be viewed as a desperate, meloncholic moving picture show. No. I am simply wrecked. I am a lazy hammock, swaying softly between two carless palms. I am the southbound wind, filling the jigs of a million little sailboats, all hoping to find a shore with buried tresure. I’m just a washed up, old dock. A dock. I’ve got mossy legs and creaking joints, and am just a few nails shy of being considered safe. I’m a platform of memories, memories that have gave me purpose, memories that stripped my splinters, and memories that weathered my legs. I am a dock and I am wrecked.
What has you at fault, while you lie in the dark?
Whose crystalline words chimed their bells in your ear?
Enticed by the ring, yet committed by fear
Of the nights you spent yearning for somebody near
So you gave her a promise, but never your heart.
What kiss did you lose to the haze of your doubt?
Whose body was offered again and again
To release your regret? Did you feel hollow then?
While you thrusted mistrust in her, venomous friend?
Just to quench the dry tongue of emotional drought.
Whose heart did you drop like a porcelain vase?
And emptied your hands of the promise you swore,
Then you watched as it shattered on cold marble floor
While those crystalline words burnt like iron and ore
Till the whole of her soul was at last set ablaze.
So this is what haunts you while pleading for sleep.
No bells playing tunes to your hearts beating drum,
Just chrysanthemum pedals, silent in heat.
Lick at the sand.
Beg rain to come.
Anonymous asked: why?
Cause stone cold said so?
There’s times that I’ve found,
With my thoughts on the ground,
That my spirit will lift
From this place that it’s bound
From this vessel or shell
O’er the tombstones of memories
“Confront it or quell”
Said the face in the fog
Which fell over the bog
Which I’ve frequented lately
At night, just to slog
Through the mist and the muss
The remiss for the lust
Of this life so corrupted
And weak and abrupt
Which collapsed into dust
When in me did I trust
So I chose and I whispered
“enough is enough”
Then the face shut its eyes
As my soul turned to mist
And its terminal sigh
Blew my spirit to bliss
And at last I ascended
At last I was free
And the face in the fog
And the bog ceased to be.