I’m hitting the edges,
coming to the limits.
The only way out is to go back;
and going back means letting it out,
back to the places that I hide, to the me I left behind.
The only way out is going in;
the only way is is to let it out.
No more living the divide, I can’t hide from what’s inside.
In mortal terror, the soul cries of an unspeakable fate.
The body knows, feels the toll of the future before it’s shown.
The mind bucks at the strain of being unable to articulate…
it’s coming.
We freeze.
Still, here we are grappling with flesh and blood, swallowing silent the soul-deep fear.
It’s coming up from the depths the thing that will rob us of breath.
Laugh, cry, break — it all ends the same.
Unless.
Unless, the focus shifts from what’s coming to what’s here.
More than empty,
I wait for some kind of feeling
to resurrect me.
My hollowed-out heart
is left aching
to be filled
by some kind of hope.
If I bury my heart in the shallows,
keep it down with a millstone of triviality,
it leaves us wanting, leaves us numb.
Instead I bear the crushing
that hollows my heart .
I looked within,
I didn’t see you there.
I looked around,
I didn’t see you here.
Now I’m without
a clear direction. My dear,
I walked in silence,
waiting for you to appear.
Why do we keep ending up
at the beginning of this barricaded love?
I keep giving all, and all I feel is
crushed. It’s like you take the breath
right out of my lungs, but I don’t want to give it up.
I want to walk in the woods with you,
leave behind these desert dunes,
listen to the wind ripple through branches and leaves,
become lost in a sea of green,
fingers intertwined, to know that you are mine.
If there’s nothing wrong then, tell me, how did we get here?
So far from what could have been but yet the life of discordance now makes sense.
If we’re both right, then what is there to hold onto?
Where do I draw the line between someone else’s name and mine?
Where do I draw the line?
Image by Rick Kuntz from Pixabay
I don’t want to obsess, but I’m caught in this unrest.
A beauty to be sure. She glitters and shines… enough to make him forget that he swore to be mine?
All I can think of is how she must look in that dress, or whatever she wears.
Does she know that she holds in her hands — my life, my love, and all she might tear?
I remind myself, don’t drop the plot, don’t drop the plot
Oh, how can I hold the line when he keeps leaving his spot?
I carry this weight and, in turn, I become heavy.
Does he think of me? I don’t know what to believe. What does it mean if the most I can say is “maybe”?
don’t drop the plot, don’t drop the plot
If only I could be more self assured, keep my love a little more measured.
But he knows, he knows how much I desperately want to be beloved, to be the only one that he’s thinking of…
Play your cards close to your chest — it’s all a game anyway, at least to him, at least to her.
But when you fight and you claw your way to dig out of a grave and somehow find a way to not go insane, then you look back you see you’re really no farther than where you were because you let him say your name.
You see, I already dropped it. The what? The plot, dropped years ago.
And I keep searching, searching for a place for my tears to go.
Tears for him, tears for me, tears for the things I don’t want to see.
He may be my weakness. I may be his afterthought.
don’t drop the plot, don’t drop the plot
I don’t want pity. I don’t want a lazy love.
I won’t beg at the table and wait for crumbs.
Feels like we’re going different directions,
as if you wouldn’t miss my presence,
as if you wouldn’t notice my absence.
I let you become my sun, only wanted to be with you.
I thought I wasn’t worthy of you, asked to be only a distant moon.
Unbeknownst to me and you, I was always more than we assumed.
I didn’t understand the fire, trapped under pressure.
Hidden away, cloaked in the pain, becoming something we couldn’t see coming.
The illusion of invisibility bursts
when we collide.
Image by Matti Matic from Pixabay
i want to escape
i want to escape
It’s the only thought that keeps me sane.
Every moment, searching for a way to get away.
It’s not a life; it’s not living but it keeps me alive.
I understand it’s not healthy. It’s not being in the moment.
I’m not present when I’m looking for the exit. sign.
Living is a burden when the ones who gave you yours couldn’t carry their own, weighed down by eons of time, by the ancestors who were merely alive.
YOLO unless you carry the load of the ones who came before.
You feel it all until you feel nothing at all
— silent screams
smiles unseen
unspoken stories —
leaving you incomplete.
Image by Jeff Klugiewicz from Pixabay
Why am I always so afraid and angry? How can the two exist with such intensity in one place?
Maybe subconsciously I know I will mess up everything.
Others have done this, and now I need to add my words?
If I could get them out right anyway… there’s always a better way to say it.
I just get in my own way.
Who am I anyway?
Why should my words carry any weight?
What does it feel like to be supported, to not have to beg for the bitter dregs?
The very thing that broke me — that still haunts and provokes me — gave me the power to walk away.
Image by No-longer-here from Pixabay
When did I begin to fear the feel of long grass against my legs?
But we walk as the distant gunfire continues.
The air cools from approaching rain.
The four-leaf clover points every way, a sign that we should pause.
Through dragon-fly wings I can see things —
faded plastic, color lost to the sun.
tangled lengths of fishing
line and bobbles, discarded
lay about the grass and trees
Distracted by a lingering kiss I forget
the sounds of birds calling and cars passing
by outside of the tree line until
cold wind forces goosebumps from my skin
The path beckons us on but we turn back to flee the coming rain.
Image by S. Hermann & F. Richter from Pixabay
notthestateofmyhouse 