December 4, 2011

Poetry Scribble: Results Of Being Tired Poetry!

It’s not Thursday but I wrote a poem so DEAL WITH IT. I’m a poet! I write poems! Fuck yeah!


In that tiny crack
in between consciousness and exhaustion
lies a different sort of person.
with an ability to do what wants doing
instead of what needs.
Epoch of shackles
keeping me under
the glass ceiling of acceptability,
and she breaks through,
casing expelled behind her.
List of my wants gripped tightly
she makes her move,
mostly talking,
panting honesty
with the moment’s excitement.
Lacking censors,
reality is a vacuum,
movement frictionless.
Touch can shatter a personality
into useless slivers
that I find hard to ignore
as they dig into my skin
and remind me of what I’ve done.
Her skin is full of them,
a carapace,
and it just makes her smile more,
lips moving purely for current desires.
Taboo topics are unearthed,
shovel working furiously
during what time she has left
until finally,
with a thump of skull on floorboard,
she leaves.

I awake to find the deed done.
Rough, usually,
but I can sandpaper edges
to find a decent shape.
It’s a relief, mostly,
and as I run my fingertips
along the inset designs.
Leaving streaks of me
to paint the surface
as I leak from last night’s affairs,
I can’t help but think
of what I could accomplish
if she always existed
and who I’d be then.

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