You won’t live forever.
No one is made for all those eyes
Boring into the soul of you
So that all you are is a fragment
Of what you once were.
You can only go downhill
Compete with the old you.
The face at least.
Because they won’t see your growth
Just the lines etched on your skin
And your desperate attempts to plump them out.
Make yourself stay in the light.
For who are you really when the screen is off?
When no one is looking?
Soon they won’t care and you will have to answer that question.
All on your own.
Have you grown?
Or are you just over the hill?
Just promise me you won’t be cruel
When the time comes to sever these threads
You won’t turn us to shreds.
I look at your face as I lie on your chest
And hope for the best.
But I’ve done this before
And the cut was pure gore, sore.
Please. Please. No more.
So be gentle as you are now
When you lick my leg
Make me beg.
Promise that when you no longer long for this touch
That when I don’t mean much
Just promise you’ll be kind.
And I promise I won’t linger
I won’t be a loser
If I have proper closure.
Originally posted Sept 2017
I will not let these four walls rule me
So that a speck of dust becomes the fulcrum around which my lonely life pivots.
I will not shine this prison until it gleams
Because then only stains will come.
I will keep gazing out the window
Hoping that it’s not the end for me.
That there must be more than never-ending folding
I refuse to gape a wide toothy grin when you come in,
Hint at perfection to distract from cracks that appear in corners.
I will be blemished and brave
So take me as I am.
Just take me.
Out of here. Out of fear.
These walls are made of sturdy bricks
And I am already plastered.
Your looks will fade my love
And all the endless preening will come to naught
I was once like you
In other flames, my comfort sought
I let my fire dwindle while I stoked theirs.
And danced like a dervish and whirled through their stares.
Slow it was, the creeping decay
Which turned copper to rust
Grass to hay.
Until one day they looked no more.
And my inner workings were merely gore.
Left uncared for … my brain did rot
And thus it is….my unhappy lot.
So dance my pretty
I’m not saying no
But keep your inner fire burning
Because your looks will go.
Originally posted May 2017.
You didn’t see the blemishes, You didn’t feel the bumps
The bristles, the lumps
You skim your tongue over me
As if I were made of milk
Lapping at silk
All the parts I hated
Berated over the years
Are smoothing me over
Like a brand new shape
A perfect sculpture
And I’m beginning to think
I’m not all that bad
I’m beginning to think..
Her skin was perfect… pristine.
I imagined her having sex.
Perfect and perfunctory..
There would be no wobble.
She would be loud from the throat but not the gut.
Did she sweat I wondered?
She sipped on water and chewed on lettuce.
How sad I thought.
I turned away to gaze at the ducks.
Calm on the surface.
She seemed stagnant to the core.
A child tripped over, sprawled on the floor.
Miss perfect’s lips turned up at the edges.
A splendid,slow sneer,slithered across her face.
I saw malice in those cerulean blues
And felt a chill in my blood.
And pity.So much pity
For a world that trusts perfection.
This song is really worth a listen. Poetry to music. Beautiful build up to a sublime finish.
Check out the video:
Your Love Is An Island