I saw a hint in your sweet eyes,
a tinge of red—a trickle of sob.
So you build these walls
and pray no one notices.
You hide your tears
behind the smell of the rain.
I see it right there even though I try not;
I feel every breath, every stab in the chest.
I wish I have the right words
the right poem, the right song.
My bones ache as you feel your pain
my throat closes as you say his name.
Can you read my mind?
I’m here, still here, not wandering away.
Who am I kidding?
The truth is
some pain are worth it,
they get old at times
and you get tired—but
the sweet taste of heartache
never gets old when the heart
longs for a touch of sentiment
to fill the hunger felt by
One shouldn’t write to make it sound pretty,
or for the rhymes to match up perfectly.
We write to show truth,
to evoke emotion.
We write about life,
which is so messy,
so why should our poetry be
The idea of perfection
is just another concept created to
and to give us another rationalization of why we should
Let it go.
perfection doesn’t exist.
You mattered. That’s why I pushed you away. I’m afraid if I let my pen bleed your name I wouldn’t be able to stop. If I introduce you to my ink it may never forget your skin.
But what’s there to be afraid of, right? Why should I be afraid of the few letters of your sweet sounding name?
I was also baffled. I thought it was easy, I’ll just let my pen bleed and do the talking. Who am I kidding?
I know you. I know your feelings. I felt it. You make me feel it.
I can’t take it. I can’t have it. Not unless i’m ready to give that much back.
In order to gain something, you must present something of equal value—equivalent exchange. Childish? No. I’m being more of a realist.
I don’t entirely believe in this notion but it’s the closest concept I can relate to that one thing every one look/yearn for almost the whole of their life.
You mattered. You still matter.