The agony of bearing an untold story
could rip your soul apart.
With every passing tick of the clock,
life making further inroads.
So much was still bound within.
The interiors. The denim.
Nothing has changed.
Fading out membranes- it’s often
a hydroplane accident waiting to happen.
I barely understand why
I function when desolated – a force of habit, a force of nature.
I don’t have all the answers.
I bleed into this life
while blending in with these emotions.
the damaged, the broken,
the lonely, the poisoned,
the angered, the distraught,
the music lovers, the drug addicts,
the word lovers, the torn
and the gone.
They call for my writings.
I remind them,
that the tears never come from the eyes,
it’s the heart that drips.
It’s all neatly planned for a poet, without loss.
These long deep breaths suggest
that I still got a lot of fight left in me.
I plunge, I plunge.
We never really know
which vehicle is going to take us there,
but it’s an awful place to be at, to have it.
To be expunged from your life was so absolute.
We writers, we have to start somewhere,
a broken heart,
or a ripped lung.
Pretty much, all the skin,
all the cells,
flooded with injectables.
Veins tired of showing up
and popping out.
Blood becomes the favorite smell.
But, I still don’t have all of the answers.
Maybe, I never did.
I’ll be awake while
the moon dances on your eyes
in the depth of dawn.
I am lucidly aware
that you don’t care.
My darling, beauty of the face
I could be okay, you could be, too.
But the last blood always belongs
to the practicality of your encephalon,
it kills the heart flow.
I don’t have the answers… I don’t.
I’ll be okay.
For however long these breaths may last,
I’ll keep smiling.
And this will always be my first answer. ♥