Talking sounds more like listening
To bursts of thunder crackling in the distance
Filling the room with static
Until the build up in our space becomes charged with rage–
Until everything has changed–
Until our bodies become nothing but pieces of wreckage:
A chaotic explosion for the barren wasteland
Where our minds are left behind to deal with the aftermath
made by our hands.
His touch grips the revolver in my mind
and sets it off with a burst of color–
Drained to white
As pain replaces the adrenaline and leaves me
Wasted.
I hate this present.
I hate how I have failed to show you depth and beauty and strength.
I gave you a torn reality that is fake and empty.
I am sorry.
I wish we could start over and find ourselves again.
Maybe we still can.
A Word to the Wise
Your words are venom–
The kind of venom that gets beneath the skin and spreads like a bug bite.
A bee sting.
The kind of feeling you get from someone repeatedly pricking every inch of your skin with a fine needle–
You’re bearable, but miserable.
Your skin is corroding beneath the negativity lining subtle words,
Bringing death closer than it was before,
And deepening the creases you thought were signs of age–
And time,
But I realized you words were laced with experience.
Times when you had to fight beneath your skin while you listened
To adults tell you how to live and how to be.
I realized you didn’t have much of a chance to be yourself,
Because you had responsibilities and weights that brought you to your knees.
Your words aren’t venom,
They are burning because you didn’t allow yourself to cry
Over the loss.
A Poet's Pen 