What a fool I have been,
Playing victim to the torment in my head.
What a tool I have been,
Sharpening the edges of my own damning blade.
What sorrow I have felt,
When I am the maker of my own salty tears.
Today this ends.
What a seed I now am,
Burying myself deep in rich soil
Soon to rise again.
Photo by Gabriel Jimenez on Unsplash
Photo by Timothy Eberly on Unsplash
The sword was already there,
Of this, I made sure.
Primed and ready for the taking,
I am a cocooned butterfly,
And I will emerge once again.
Not today, I tell her.
Today you can not have me.
Today you can not ravage me,
Like a glutton for my bones –
I shall deny you in hushed tones -no
– a single whispered line,
“Leave me be, insecurity.
Today you will not have me.
Today I am mine.”
Ensconce me in your warmth,
And wrap my skin in sweet joy.
Bite deep, like a leech-
Sucking away until every last drop-
Of loneliness excretes- from this desperate soul,
Before I sink too low.
Days of isolation sting sharp,
Like a fresh cut.
Raw, oozing blood,
Pooling at the seams of these poorly sewn stitches.
For which I am to blame-
For I am the seamstress,
Sewing tight my own demise.
And I am the surgeon-
Cutting out my hollowed eyes.
For they have done me a disservice,
And I no longer see the light.
Nevermore have I needed hope.
Nevermore have I needed sight.
Photo by: Kristina Tripkovic on Unsplash
Peace sweeps through the alter,
On one stormy eve.
But, pray tell, what reprieve –
Could bless such scorched earth, that I do walk?
As I do sing, the winds to sleep.
Once I failed,
Twice I caved.
And now, what new sins doth do creep?
Quieten my jaded voice,
And drench my skin in salty fears.
For now, I see no path for which I am meant to walk.
For now, I see no action, for which I am meant to fake.
Only for now, I say I am done.
A small reprieve, for this liar’s sake.
(featured image taken on a clear day before the storm)
If Reason Could
If for no one else, for me.
I cannot continue living in this half baked hell,
This space-time continuum,
This worm hole of doubt.
I need out-
Of this ever receding hope,
I’m like a cream puff
As fake laughter trickles up your throat of lies.
Who am I,
But a product of disaster,
A child of the chaos-
That kicks and screams in your mind.
Only respite is to run,
Exit stage left of this show.
No encore, please, I’m tired.
Your point is said, not made.
Paranoia strikes again,
The chaos has won you over.
If only reason fell like rain,
For the soil beneath to absorb,
For seeds of peace to sprout anew.
Then this sickness could excrete from your mind,
And we could rejoice with what’s left of our time.
Photo by Mauricio Artieda on Unsplash
Soft petals fall,
On the ground, too slow.
Who am I, but a distant eye,
Bitterly waiting, on the black crow,
Anxiously eyeing that woody stem,
As stormy winds draw near and wreak mayhem.
‘Too slow,‘ I say,
The girl on the hill.
The lady behind glass.
Wet cheeks pressed against a shattered window sill.
Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash
But what forsaken thoughts,
Interrupt my thoughtless day?
For now, I choose distraction,
And guide my mind away.
Should time catch up with this quiet mouse,
And regret’s trap,
these fragile limbs,
I will be but a pawn,
To a faultless king’s whim.
Perhaps, in a stretch of time,
My bones will tell a tale,
Of a forgotten distant, past,
When a new beginning sets it’s sail.