Tag: spilled ink

Of Old Bones and Weary Hearts

Sometimes you have to tell your wounds that you love them.

They are trying their best to heal, and that’s all you can really ask of them.

Sometimes you have to tell your weary bones to rest.

They have held you up for so long, and can barely remember their own names.

Sometimes you cannot quiet your heart, loudly, endlessly beating.

It is struggling to keep you alive, the only way it knows how.

Sometimes you cannot blind your eyes, as you see the good in the world pass you by.

For they were made to show you what you needed to see, cracks in the world and all.

Sometimes you cannot tell your lips to cease, speaking of flaws, fears, regrets.

They were made to speak true, yet get so caught up in the twisted idols of men.

Sometimes you have to tell your mind to forget, to catalogue a different hour,

Instead of sorting through the same albums, plastering your senses with grief.

Sometimes you cannot quiet your ears, from the lies you tell yourself.

For you have trained them so well, to hate so much of who you are.

Remember that they are all flawed, just like you and everything else in this world.

But that does not make them useless, as they are trying the hardest they can.

Stationary Departure

I am too much sometimes,

You know?

I arrive all at once

Baggage in my hands

Ready to sift through them

Right before we depart,

But you have barely begun to pull in

Your hair still windswept,

Your eyes groggy from your last trip.

You stumble half-heartedly onto the platform

And in your hazy vision you can barely make me out

You’re not really sure what you’re seeing

You’re not even sure who you are

Or where you are

And I’m packed up and ready to leave.

You smile in your delirium

And I choke back on my understanding.

I know where you are.

I’ve been there before.

And I’ll wait at the station for you.

Because each step forward

Is weighed down, heavy with preparations

Echoing thoughts and intentions

Too early to even breath.

But I’ll stand here,

Communicating that I know I am too much

Too quickly

Too cumbersome for now.

So I’ll unpack a basket and some plates

And spread out a place for you to sleep

And lay the rest aside for another day

Another week

Another trip.

Surplus Scarcity

He loved her in hushed tones

Like a rumor perched between his lips

Held hostage by anxious thoughts

And visions of what could have been.

Every breath emerging from hesitation

Slid past fumbling fingers

And tension that was less a form of art

Than a simple extension of existence.

Each association was shaken down

Examined for vulnerabilities

Then held at an arm’s length.

Eyes squinting and ears pricked

For the inevitable signs of boredom

Discretely widening pockets of silence

Footsteps fading in the distance.

Evangelical Fervor

Her heart is a confession box

Full of the whispered sins of others

Regrets mingled with half-hearted promises.

Her legs are marked with scattered stories

In the burns and bitter stains of spilled coffee,

A representation of missed appointments

And unkempt curls drenched with ambiguity.

Apologies lie tangled between her thighs

Like sounds trapped in tree branches

Waiting for the wind to release them.

Her laughter catches in her throat

Like a quickly uttered curse echoing in a chapel

Blemished by horrified stares

And all the while

She feigns offense at her own mind.

Yet, betrayed intentions gloss over her eyes

And speak volumes that neither her lips

Nor ample tongue dare admit.

You Are More

You sing within my bones

And resonate my waking hours

With gentle harmonies of disillusion.

You sap from me my memories

My fear of having a past that mattered

Baggage that marred and deserted

So many before.

Life before you seems a dream

A nightmare I’ve barely awoken from

Shaking,

Sweaty,

Throat hoarse from screaming,

Reaching and grasping for some hold

Some ledge in the retreating landscape.

You are not my savior;

No.

You are not a rope or a ledge

To climb up or hang myself with.

You are not a drink or a drug

To forget with or find some shallow high,

Some tainted sweet taste of escape.

You are none of these things.

You are none of these things.

You are neither the patterns

Or spontaneity in existence,

Cohabiting a home of flesh and thought

Spiraling in conjunction.

You are not the thoughts that shriek

In swiftly passing days

Or grueling nights.

You are not the worries

That perch outside the windows

Announcing rain with weathered claws

Screeching upon glass.

You are neither the anxious murmurs

That tap on your doors

While slipping hatred underneath

Signed by friends

You know so much better than that,

But begin to doubt anyways.

You are so much more than all of this

And I love you for that,

Because it’s all I really know of you.

And everyday I regret that.

And everyday I wish I knew more.

Evanescent Portents

My heart flinches at the thought

That you might exist

Beyond the smoke and ashes

Of burnt out hope

And kerosene soaked desires.

My breath catches in my chest

As I gasp for a name I may never know

Or have said so often

It is etched within my lungs.

Perhaps I have seen you in vision

With eyes unaccustomed to brilliance

Stricken with mere shadows

And only an aftereffect

To blink at and remember you by.

I worry you are trapped in my mind

As once I was as well

Shouting some plea for recognition

Hoping to be heard

Above the screeching of lesser musings.

No More Rest

She cradled me in her arms

Like a wounded sheep wandering

With nothing but fear

Eternally etched in wide, still eyes

Shock and awe frostbitten by time

Decay like dark spots nibbling

Reflecting headlights off asphalt

Stretched like screams in the night.

In between her breaths I fall apart

As footsteps fade from summer’s scent

And cease to echo in gravel

Pointed with delayed intentions.

Broken promises pile up like rocks

Disjointed and ejected from their homes

A landslide before our destination

Leaving her to carry on, alone.

Musty Melancholy

I reach for sleep

But my thoughts are leaking

Like rain through the rooftop

Cracking and warping the ceiling

Leaving crevices

Where the musty smells of overdue words

And expired wishes rest.

My lungs are coated with unspoken whispers

Cast out in unplanned expectoration 

Explorations of expectations

And reason overturned in hasty flight.

Memories drip slowly

And my eyes are coated in blurry visions

As I claw for some shade of comfort

In a scramble for repose,

Yet hazy recollections of tranquility

Are all I chance to find. 

Cautious Tranquility

I trace constellations on your skin

With lips that yearn for guidance  

Making connections between breaths

With kisses that barely brush

Then linger on soft sweetness.

I hesitate,

Then contemplate the Maker’s design

Lines that intertwine

And intersect our interaction

Setting once parallel figures

On a course of collision.

Colluding shadows of mirth and mire

Muddle our once cacophonous minds

With medleys of satiated cries

Echoing the once silent walls

Within our hearts

Leaving impressions of something more

Than ink or stone can recognize.