Missed It

An addiction only addicts can romanticize,
poems written on hips and thighs.
You smile, warmly, with your eyes;
you don't know I'm keeping lies.
Secrets - like hot air - rise
up my throat, to my lips: chastise.

Bile burns my mouth and lips,
as cold skin begins to rip
from the metal I've learned to worship.
Bubbles, oozes, and drips.
Why not just one more trip?
At risk is just a friendship.

It's getting old; it's getting tired.
Don't have the will that is required
and every attempt is bruised and mired.
Words reused or long expired,
leave so much to be desired.
So, I'll just lay here uninspired.

And read this verse as my confession:
the truth in words I couldn't fashion,
a warning of the deepest caution.
Love and hate, a bubbling caldron:
ridged and rough and smooth and silken
with all the mysteries that lie within.

I loved him in ways that are listed
on limbs that are whithered and wilted.
I'd say the words if they existed,
if their spellings weren't rank and twisted.
The tale's too mangled and maliable and misted
and though I told you, I knew you missed it.

*****************************************

What this is really about is something I'm eternally unable to articulate which is why it winds up making no sense. It's like: something happened and you should know, but I can't wrap my head around it; therefore, I can't explain it.

But, really, you don't want to know anyway, so it's probably for the best that the words are gone (or were never there to begin with). And for the sake of not losing more people I love, my teeth are locked tightly atop my tongue.




"I'll just lay here uninspired, feeling bad that I threw you away..." Kevin Devine Confessional At 6am