There was not an escape,
nor any sort of turning back;
we were alone in the crooked
shells of the world, holding on
with tethered hands and tired
souls, breaking insights as we
hunted for survival – there was
only a you and I, harboring our
love on mile markers and poor
gas station coffee, no ideas on
a direction, no actual plans for
an escape, just going and going
until we could pretend we were
gone, lost inside the disheveled
aftermath of a broken journey.
I thought I had your heart,
all this time I was calling it
mine, still believing that our
memories had been painted
on the walls of your heart in
crimson shades of the golden
days when a whisper was all
that it took, more than just a
look and I was yours and you
were all mine – but with days
fading, and the paint chipping
away, I ask myself how long
I shall be allowed to stay…
I blocked out words
falling from my lips
in blue ink stains on
the page; where my
imagination was left
to fight back words
attempting to escape,
I sought out freedom
from the truth, all the
while still dreading
the certainty of losing
myself inside broken
verses strewn across
the page, littered in
ramblings and debris
of a story not my own.
Written in the ashes
of pencil shavings and
daydreams are leftover
remains of my words
not quite brave enough
to take root to the page;
searching for solace in
the confines of a blank
space, where limits are
the enemy, burying my
own expectations into
first drafts of promises
in a chance at revival of
written smoke and ash.
We’re trapped in coal
in a dance among flames,
caught in the embers of
a blue and golden haze,
fighting to reach the stars
in a breath of air and sky,
waiting for the moment
to whisper our goodbyes;
dancing long past night
into dust and fallen ash
leaving behind memories
of a firelight sorted past.
If my words mean nothing
then why do you shed light
on them during the hours
following the break of the
moon – filling your thoughts
with serenades and sonnets
of the love that I have for you,
which you aren’t allowing to
grow; bending the edges of
the words into hardened and
misshapen truths as though
honesty is the reality you’re
running from, and I am the
keeper of twice painted lies.
I wrote down every letter
in curves and slants in a
constant repetition of the
words I longed to say to
you – the characterization
of every verse loaded with
a kiss, a promise, and a
meaning that would only
fall apart with punctuation.
Every letter was bleeding
in blue ink from my mind,
hoping for a chance to be
read by you, to be seen as
though you alone could see
into my heart and realize
what kept it beating – but
words are only words until
put into action, and it was
just one of the many love
letters, I could never send.
My words weren’t enough
so I stopped speaking them,
allowing them to burn at
the corners and crumble
in their own ashes, with
embers to chant past the
hurt and confusion, while
placing all bets on time
with only chance to spare.
I’m starting to miss
the rain – the humble
falling from grace
of something so sweet,
innocent even, coming
down from the heavens
to greet us all here.
Or maybe I just miss
how you’d wrap me in
your arms with every
drop – either way, I’m
ready for spring.
The stars have become my enemy
as I gaze across them each night
when my eyes and mind won’t sleep,
as they get to be in your presence
rocking you soundly to sweet dreams
of sunshine and half cast metaphors.
Storylines in Verse 