It scares me 

how much I care 

 

 

not about you or her or him or them 

or it 

but about everything. 

 

How I feel in tsunamis instead of waves 

and being dragged under is made easier. 

 

 

How I long in octaves unknown to even myself, 

that resonate in shorthand treatment. 

 

I feel, with a great passion. 

For and about and because of 

everything. 

they told me you would be my remedy on the rainy days 

and you were

my everlasting sunshine amid the showers

but when the storms rolled in heavier than ever before 

you were no where to be found 

and when i was struck harder than ever before 

even after the storm my life remained 

a charred version 

so stained and sealed shut by the power of the blow 

that your rays could no longer find me 

or at least i would like to believe so 

that you were still shining 

and circumstance

was the only barrier 

and i think, often, about

how i may be blind to your presence 

because i can close my eyes

but i cannot find a reason 

as to how i shut out your warmth 

help me 

think of reasons

for in all honesty 

i cannot remember 

anymore

even hearing about the sun 

My fingertips are no foreigners to the feels of a metal’s smooth surface, or how chilly it may be

my body less than shudders at the alloys instilled in me. 

 

I wonder how a child’s hand sends vibrations of life when it’s encompassed in mine

but to feel their presence within my own anatomy takes quite a length of time. 

 

Must the metals break, jagged and cutting through, for a sense of their presence to be found?

Must a child engulf my every sense for an acknowledgement of their whereabout? 

 

I can’t help but wonder, helplessly, if for cognizance I must be overwhelmed. 

Maybe this could, partially explain, why I’ve failed to keep things at helm.  

 

On most days quite fine, not a care in the world

till ignorance is annihilated and I helplessly hurl 

 

How feasible it is to convince myself: I am content 

While slowly my insides are bent-

 

A void overwhelming I cannot ignore,

my own being I begin to abhor.

a whirlwind inside cannot be escaped, 

in it’s exigence I find myself draped. 

 

From this phenomenon I cannot hide, 

neither can I attempt to put it aside. 

Pristinely clear for all those who care to see, 

my dictionary of being’s slowly being confined to me. 

Do not ask me 

to open up to you

‘like a book’ 

to unfold my pages

my rough draft 

my final 

if all you’re willing to do 

is rip them out one by one 

cross over the words that created me 

and infiltrate me with your own. 

 

Do not ask me 

to open up to you

‘like a book’ 

if you’re not willing to read

a piece of someone else’s creation 

your touch is prevalent in these pages 

but these thoughts are my own 

this ink is my own 

this story is my own. 

 

Do not ask me 

to open up to you

‘like a book’ 

if you refuse to believe in originality 

annihilate dichotomy 

and wish to turn me into a copy 

of your own work 

believe it or not 

this story 

belongs to me. 

 

Do not ask me 

to open up to you

‘like a book’ 

a book is meant to be read

and i wish to remain a mystery

my pages leave nothing unsaid 

your gentle flipping:

intimacy 

but i wish for no such touch 

unmarked; unscathed; free of injury. 

 

Do not ask me 

to open up to you

‘like a book’ 

some books are made to be sealed shut 

some books are left on racks untouched 

some books aren’t meant for reading

some books are void of plots and such 

i am but a work in the making

my spine too weak to sustain 

the tears of holding me open 

so don’t ask me; never again. 

please excuse my sin-ridden skin 

stories of slaughter and sabotage 

i succumb to within 

as i reach out my senses

malicious they din

but my conscious is still sound 

it still slits me open 

 

 

please excuse my sin-ridden skin 

as my limbs long for forgiveness

but too often cave in 

they transgress with no set backs 

spoil the carcass’s within

stones have served less carvings

a fixed, malignant grin 

 

 

please excuse me

and my sin-ridden skin 

though i fathom your loathsome 

i wish you’d be more open 

these marks can’t be rubbered

for i’ve erred far too greatly:

i am merely human 

 

Our friendship was a lagniappe 

nothing more than a strategic necessity 

a well-thought out dexterity 

mastered beaming-forgery 

when we were jaded internally. 

 

Our friendship was a lagniappe 

a child of circumstance, nothing more 

a temporary remedy for permanent sores 

not mandatory- although was true 

instead of happiness, bore a taste of rue. 

 

Our friendship was a lagniappe 

a treat, ulteriorly, much more 

but for each his own-  to the core

convinced we cared, convinced we could

God knows, though, that we never would.

 

Our friendship was a lagniappe

and wrapped so eloquently too

its ribbons strangle, set constraints 

yet with arms bundled behind my back 

I can’t help but think of how I miss you. 

  

 

Losing a best friend 

is saying good bye 

to the crinkles of your eyes

when you smile 

 

it is abandoning 

the parts of you 

that only they know 

that only you share

 

it is forgetting 

how to breathe 

under water 

temporarily 

 

it is burying 

the sad and the gay 

the little things 

the unforgettable 

 

losing a best friend 

is losing yourself 

your innermost being 

your outermost vibe 

 

it is saying good bye 

to an entire chapter 

to unwritten poems 

to tear-provoking times 

 

it is saying hello 

to innermost fears 

to outermost pieces 

uncurling before the public’s eyes 

 

 

it is being left bare 

for everyone to see 

something no longer whole 

no longer me. 

 

 

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