I stood alone one evening
in the middle of a crowd
familiar to me
in a legible way
but not in any language I’ve ever written
to them and with them
they say I should belong
but I find that unlikely
as I look into your eyes and you paint
a picture of longing
love and lingering sentiment
that exists only on paper
along with that list
you reference at Lunch
I am a resume,
An outline,
A table of contents.
To a life you think you want,
But I know better.
It is everything I want
And Long to hear
while it provokes
everything I don’t want
and of which I Long to be rid.
I only desired your happiness
But I am finding that this wish
Is at the expense of my own
I want more moments
Or do I want my moments returned to me
I cannot confirm either
But they are both truths
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
6:50 pm some time ago
From a place that withers, whines and sits vacant,
With a silence that sings lyrical furlongs to my soul,
Belongs a woman.
with eyes that I once delivered lines about but
Now I can’t, due to silence
but not from me.
Once her silhouette fades into the dawn
That silence shrieks with such passion
My soul must cover its ears with so many pillows
That it cannot even get out of bed.
So it stays there
All morning
hoping
until a commencement of words pour out of its pen
onto pieces of paper whose destiny is to sit wedged neatly between pages of other words
poured onto pieces of paper from other souls whose ears have been covered for centuries and seconds; though I’m unsure of which is longer.
For in those fluid words rest a genuine thought or two who long to be heard and understood by those formerly informed eyes.
She knows not however
What dreams drift
And thoughts sift from such souls who write from beneath sheets
And from the one whose soul is buried beneath all those pillows for hours after the silhouette has been gutted from those rooms.
For her presence is so deeply yearned in her absence
By that soul in bed
It cries softly back to that absence
Even while it knows it will never be answered with such urgent authenticity as the words it has written, writes and will continue to ink onto countless pages until forever is reached.
With a silence that sings lyrical furlongs to my soul,
Belongs a woman.
with eyes that I once delivered lines about but
Now I can’t, due to silence
but not from me.
Once her silhouette fades into the dawn
That silence shrieks with such passion
My soul must cover its ears with so many pillows
That it cannot even get out of bed.
So it stays there
All morning
hoping
until a commencement of words pour out of its pen
onto pieces of paper whose destiny is to sit wedged neatly between pages of other words
poured onto pieces of paper from other souls whose ears have been covered for centuries and seconds; though I’m unsure of which is longer.
For in those fluid words rest a genuine thought or two who long to be heard and understood by those formerly informed eyes.
She knows not however
What dreams drift
And thoughts sift from such souls who write from beneath sheets
And from the one whose soul is buried beneath all those pillows for hours after the silhouette has been gutted from those rooms.
For her presence is so deeply yearned in her absence
By that soul in bed
It cries softly back to that absence
Even while it knows it will never be answered with such urgent authenticity as the words it has written, writes and will continue to ink onto countless pages until forever is reached.
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