Empty Hands

I hear people saying that they want a little more,
but their bodies are telling me how tired they are
where their passions scream
like silent lakes
where the water never moves
and everything in the world
slows down to a single moment.
It’s like entire lives are being lived between us,
hidden deep in the people passing by
who always look like they’re only an emotion away from collapsing,
fading through broken holidays
that’ve survived on misconceptions
sending vibrations through our bodies
disguised as heartbeats and heavy breaths,
but we’ve noticed
those moments
where things don’t click,
like they were designed not to stick to these thoughts
left to rot in the recess of our own memories
where all our favourite stories
all fight each other with details just to be spoken
like naked bodies outside soaking in the light.
All we have is the time it might take
to believe there’s a better reason
beyond where the rocks stop skipping
like they were forced into giving up
along the limitations only matching the foundations
of skill and strength found only in the hand
that threw it in the first place.


About Sean O'Gorman

Spoken Word poet from Ottawa. View all posts by Sean O'Gorman

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