Pinned

It's the same story
and the same signs
with the same endings
and the same bullshit lines.
I will never speak
your name again.
I thought you were softer
than you were then.
I took your photo
down today.
I said my goodbyes
in my own way.
Sick to my stomach
from the wonder and worry,
but none of it matters
inside of this fury.
Permanence is myth.
I'm always just a phase;
I'm always just an option
and no one even stays.
I'm pinned against the wall
with your hands around my neck
and I'm growing old and cold.
I am your walking wreck.

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







"These sour grapes when the joke goes bad, this same smirk, same bullshit laugh, the egg on my face when I can't go back. I didn't plan for that." Kevin Devine 11/17/10

"I am bottled, fizzy water and you are shaking me up. You are a fingernail, running down the chalkboard I thought I left in third grade. Now my only, consolation, is that this could not last forever even though you're singing and thinking how well you've got it made." Incubus Just A Phase

Burn

Long, late nights
and playful bites,
the cheerful smiles
over so many miles
are barely memories yet,
but I want to forget.
You ruined so many
songs for me.
Songs I used to love.
(Songs we used to love.)
They're just nails on a chalk
board anymore and I can't talk
or think or feel right,
a piercing through my temples every night.
I've done my fair share of my unfair shit.
That doesn't mean you'll get away with it.
Undeserved second chances
and false-start to stop romances:
mistakes from which one day I'll learn.
For now, I want to see you burn.

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




"My baby shot me on a mountain top. I get my kicks - yeah - from the bottoms up. And all of these people saying they've had enough, well I don't think that you'd understand. I've done my fair share of my unfair shit. That doesn't mean you'll get away with this. I hid your name upon the quilt I knit; still, I don't think that you'd understand." - River City Extension Holy Cross

"There's a hole in the ceiling down through which I fell. There's a girl in a basement coming out of her shell. And there are people who will say that they knew me so well. I may not go to heaven; I hope you go to hell..." Counting Crows St. Robinson And His Cadillac Dream [I know I just used this recently, but the sentiment still stands.]

"And it's not what were owed, but it’s what we’ve earned, and it's closer than we realized that it's time now, to burn." Kevin Devine Time To Burn (Another Bag Of Bones"

Skeleton

The punch in the gut,
the swearing, the smut,
caught her mind
up in a bind.
She did it again,
forgot to lift her pen
so the clouds still hover.
And she doesn't recover
from any of it.
A battle of wit,
but she's too drained to care
how many scars are there
or how much more her liver can bear.
Connect the dots, the rips, the tears.

Shuffling on her sidewalks,
but - at every turn - she balks:
a scared skeleton, hiding
and only in her walls, confiding.
Yet she suspects the drywall
of conspiring to tell-all.
She's looking for a home
or a soul with whom to comb
the strands of life she has left.
Her youth: victim of theft.
But it's always out of reach.
There's a crack, a hole, a breach.
There's a quiver in your speech.
There's a lesson here to teach.


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



It's not that I'm being prolific. This one and the one I posted yesterday are actually just poems I started a while ago that I didn't feel able to finish at the time, but now feel I can finish adequately. You tell me.

However, I may become more prolific now that some of the older ideas have been worked through a little.







"There's a hole in the ceiling down through which I fell. There's a girl in a basement coming out of her shell. And there are people who will say that they knew me so well. I may not go to heaven; I hope you go to hell..." Counting Crows St. Robinson And His Cadillac Dream

Threads

The sun that rises for you,
slouches in her skies.
She pulls her hair back
and takes a breath
to start her day,
but one just fades into the next.
The nexus between living
and operating
has dissolved into
a dew
and a few
take notice,
but the rest just turn their heads.
Frayed and tattered are her threads.
So, life goes on without you,
but its air is stagnant.
She finds her fragments
mingled with yours
in her glossy magazines
and in the fronts of her stores.
It's nothing tangible.
It's nothing she can hold.
She's just left in a corner,
in the dark, in the cold
where it's safe, but not sounds,
where she hopes not to be found.


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

I guess I'm starting to deal with it. But not really, haha.






"O that this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!"
- Hamlet (being only a little over dramatic)
Hamlet, Act I, Scene II