when the scars are sweet
I am looking at the scars on the back of my hands,
the little ones,
a crescent across one knuckle,
nicked playing warrior with wooden swords.
The one at my fingertip,
from learning how to cut onions,
pulling swim goggles over watering eyes,
laughing around the tears.
When I tell her I know her like the back of my hand,
I am referring to this place,
all splinters and sweetness,
and a thousand other moments that have faded with time.
When I tell her I know her
like the back of my hand,
I wonder if she realizes
I don't know her at all.
Etched on the backs of my eyelids is one of those dusky nights,
threadbare tires and music that tastes of static and somewhere else.
Outside autumn is taking its final rattling breath,
the cold just shy of being cruel,
though I will only notice this later.
For now I lean against the backseat window,
watching streetlights flicker lazily to life,
pretending I cannot feel your hand in mine,
the way you trace the ring on my finger,
and my world snaps into focus.
I try to find something pretty to say,
but my prose has always looked better on paper,
and there is a simplicity in silence, too.
How and when?
How it is supposed to be done will you please explain it further? . .
have you ever walked out
of your therapist's office
because getting better
hurts like a mother______
or turned in
an exam in college
with only your name
which is tarnished anyway
they tell you at the beginning
that it's going to be difficult
these things that make or break us
but I'd argue
anything can be erased
with a number two pencil
and some denial
the gaps in between.
a field covered in snow
with a solitary red dot
bleeding crimson ink
tears lead to deserts
silence causes a hurricane
where has the past gone
lantern light extinguished
stumbling in the dark
falling through the floor
searching for sanity
as it all unwinds
b a s
......Keep Going To Reach Completion
Writing again usually feels it can be tweaked further.
Everyday being alive seems to be ongoing.
Cycling through the routine again respawn.
Going further than last time progress.
Mind going blank something missing...
Feel like I'm not my usual self incomplete.
Incomplete & Misplaced
For as long as I can remember, I have felt much like the proverbial 'fish out of water' - as though I did not belong in the time or place in which I was born and lived. I truly have felt incomplete and misplaced in this life. I can't really explain it other than to say that I have always gravitated to other things, people, and places with a depth and scope of feeling that is inherent in my soul, and yes, even in my body since I feel it to my core. It prevails and haunts me as it permeates every part of my life.
Most people would say that I am silly and am wishing for things that can't happen or I can't have, but it's so much more. There's a feeling that I should have born elsewhere. Everything has always felt a bit off. If you could feel as I do, you'd understand it all in the skip of a heartbeat, but since that can't possibly happen, we'll choose the wonder of words. I only hope I can portray the depth of what I feel through the beauty and power of the words written herein.
If one were to believe in reincarnation, then it seems possible that I was previously alive in Italy or England in the days of old. It’s as though there's a familiarity with those distant places that I sense and nearly breathe despite the fact that I have never been to either of the countries. How can something you don't know seem so familiar? It’s akin to déjà vu. I'm not precisely sure what it is or how it works, but for me, these places whose soil I have never had the privilege to lay my foot upon feel all too familiar in a multitude of ways. And even more so, it's all felt in a sense of something very old.
Yes, despite what one may think about thee things, I truly feel as though I've experienced a type of social shock for feeling as incomplete or misplaced as I do. I have an old soul that gravitates to older people, places, and things; it's those people and things with which I am the most comfortable. And it's also true that especially while gazing at a star-filled sky at night, I have never felt quite at home where I am. I love my family, so I am not ungrateful for what I have. But still, it doesn't alter the scope, the breath, and the depth of what I've always felt: things have never, ever felt complete for me, leading to a sense of misplacement. And the familiarity with and the inherent knowledge of places I have never been and things I have never seen shall always reverberate deep within until my dying breath.
To Call You Friend
To call you friend
is not enough
We are one brain
Your happiness is my ecstasy
Your sadness is my grief
And despite my heart's crave for loneliness
I cannot run far from you
Your conversation lights up a room
Your smile makes me think
And your being lights on fire
this crumpled paper ball in my chest
Forget the world
the blanket, the sky, the noise
and I'll remember the music of your name
because that means so much more
than to call you friend
a half wrapped package
not yet open
a small timer peeking out
how much time
do i have left
before i'm gone?
before i'm blown away
by a random act of
who could have left this gift
waiting innocently on my steps
counting down even while i slept.
my life isn't done,
some things left unsaid
yet i can do nothing but watch
as the timer keeps going down.
i scratch at
tearing it to bits.
i'm not ready to die.
this is a simple fix.
toss it aside, take it to the police
bury it in the woods
where it'll barely make a dent.
i'm not ready to die
so why can't i move?
maybe because i know
this package is from you.
my life is incomplete
but so is my heart
and if i had to choose
i'd rather die than lose you.
so take this poem
as a declaration
even though you've killed me