I’ve made my own mistakes
and the memories of these times
constantly reminds me
that there will always be chances to remake myself,
reform the mould that once broke
in the kind of places
where these fingers could only reach
so these hands could rebuild
all the shards of who I once was.
Monthly Archives: November 2013
I’ve made my own mistakes
Dare to speak,
in a time when our voices
are either off the rails
or have begun to trail off
and the meaning has
sunk so far down into our chests
that our words not only drip,
they slip from our fingertips
the paper trails we leave behind in books.
We’re wrestling with ourselves,
like our hearts
the rope between our lungs
pulling at each other
retracting in a tangled tug of war.
This is where poetry
should be our weapon of choice
something imperfectly splintered
meant to stick it in and break it off,
but we’re divided by like minded opinions
those invisible lines
where passports get cut
from the same trees as textbooks.
We’re choking on all the things
we should have said,
to make other people laugh.
Losing control our identities,
we are the individual masses
still trying to come together
by comparing our histories.
We’re looking for our pasts
like a path might bring us together
through tighter hands
where our fingers
have stopped holding each other
cross each other over
covering the things we swear by
the way promises overlap
and memories intermingle,
all woven into
the things barely based on actual events.
I want to hear the words
that never leave your thoughts.
I want to know something
you’ve known all along.
I want to feel the things
that only you can teach.
I want to hear what you’re afraid to say.
I’m holding sand between my fingers
and while it slips right through
there are only reminders
of the time I’ve wasted.
We only joke
when our voices break,
laughing like a shield
as our nerves
give us a different face
and the all the people sitting in the chairs
not knowing what to do.
I walk blind like it didn’t matter,
like the wind would never find me,
never try and take me from my own feet,
but the gist is in the gust
follows me until I fall from my own legs
onto the unforgiving pavement
trying to reach white bone.
My eyes were never
made for the bright lights
but the only proof I have
is how hard it is
for me to see you,
to find you,
to tell you
that I need help.
This splinter’s are already stuck
and the wood has grown rotten to the point of infection,
taking its time with the way I feel
and knowing that I’ll never notice
until it’s already inside.
There are times I scream
for reasons like this,
but this time
all I do is realize…
when the moment strikes
that it will be days
until I walk the same way again.