In the depths of silence
flowing against rhythms
of loss and love, without
your touch to help guide,
I am havoc into myself;
building barriers to cage
my own heart as though
I am not a carefree soul,
limited only to paper and
blue inked pen – but that’s
not us darling, together we
are rain falling and songs
playing on vinyl, creating
our own rhythms of love
to play against the silence
even if only we can hear.
The skies of winter
have my name written
in pink and gray muted
hues, as though we had
been close friends once,
bonded together by the
falling snow within small
crevices of concrete and
truths, where the slightest
whistle was calling upon
the winds to join us – the
skies of winter are a lost
friend, long forgotten in
the blinding lights of the
holidays, buried inside a
forthcoming of snow as
though that were all they
had left to share with us.
I’ve reached the crumbled shells
of disappointment rooted inside
your kiss – we’ve reached tattered
remains of lies and discontent in
the hours belonging to truth and
I cannot fathom how we got here.
It’s the loneliest hour as I am found
beside myself and beside the bed,
unable to crawl into the comfort
we had once shared, knowing that
you will not be there. I am hurting,
always hurting and you never saw.
I will myself not to cry, for my tears
will go unheard, with no release of
thoughts or pain, so I simply refrain.
I am the loneliest hour, pounding on
the doors of my own heart to let go;
I know disappointment far too well.
I buried my dreams whole,
in the raw hopes that they
would grow, taking roots in
a foundation of reality and
bursting through fantasy as
an open door; carelessly I
forgot to water them, none
too eager to behold magic,
I waited miles away to see
the progress of dead dreams
on the horizon, when I knew
as a whole, I was suffering.
I.
I sabotage my own happiness
as a fear of letting go – leaving
behind the struggles, the empty
thoughts and feelings in which
I had tried to drown, and saying
goodbye to my own madness as
the only friend I knew. I crush
my own spirits as I am afraid of
the safety I feel from loving you;
you hold my heart so delicately,
in a promising way I never knew,
with gentle whispers of affection,
adorning my once self-demeaning
thoughts with the aspirations of a
future of happiness with you.
II.
I am used to the bleak and weary,
the self-inflicted pain, fleeing from
all signs of happiness, but now it is
your arms that I am running to. I
have sabotaged all our days, in the
ruins of our nights, I see my faults,
I know I am wrong, please tell me
I am not too late.
III.
Before you I was afraid of all the
things I couldn’t understand, and
I let that fear drive me to depths
of my undoing, but then you were
there to save me, and I was afraid
of the glaring truth, that I could no
longer save myself. I threw away
all chances of happiness as it was
a feeling I couldn’t grasp, and now
I’ve become the master of sabotage,
wondering if I can find the strength
to save myself from truly ruining us.
My words were harboring
at the deepest end, only to
burst on the surface at the
first sign of light – fighting
a losing battle against time
and the currents, making the
words stubborn, unattainable
at the heart, as I was left to
dwell alone in the shallows,
watching with a half heart
as my words were the only
cause to blame, as I lay back
submerging myself in relief
and guilt, as I lay drowning.
As the night progressed
into the gentle falling of
rain against the windows,
my words washed away
into memory, drifting by
the outskirts of streams,
in downcast symphonies
set to rhythms and blues;
with the winds twitching,
mumbling the remainder
of my thoughts, I am left
to drown in the hopes of
love in silence, hardened
against memories of soft
jazz, flowing like the rain.
Somewhere in the transition
of my love for you and being
allowed to love you once more,
I lost my voice – gone were the
words that flew so easily from
my pen, left instead to the blue
inked stains smeared across the
pages, crossed out and repeated
twice more until love itself had
become this illusion and I could
no longer convey my affection
without the promise of bleeding
my heart on the page, and in my destruction, my voice withdrew;
leaving behind thoughts I could
not put into words, strangled by
time and longing, as though upon
its death, the truth could be free.
I once knew how ink
bled from my loosely
strangled ideas into
scraps of feelings left
behind, burned across
the page, where desire
whispered against the
frailty of my own truths;
I had known the depths
of roots, as they were
bound like shackles to
the ground, where my
limitations had become
the soil in which I grew.
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.
Storylines in Verse 