Broken

You consume my every thought
That I want to put into words
But every poem that begins
Sounds like a eulogy
That I will have to give.

So, forgive me.

I can’t paint you
Into a thousand words.
The watercolors always bleed
One thought into another.

My mind doesn’t allow
Ignoring of obvious possibilities.

Imagination is a child’s play thing,
The child being my anxiety,
My mind the playground,
The ground is lava.

My hands are always slipping
Across the monkey bars.

I’m stuck in the middle,
Writing a poem,
About a poem I want to write,
About how writing that poem will break me.

Is this insanity?

Maybe if I will it hard enough,
Lily pads will appear beneath my toes,
But will I be strong enough to let go
And trust that everything won’t burn?

I’m pink with the rising heat,
Someone has a basketball,
thump,

thump,

thump.

I can feel it through my body.

I know what you are thinking,
It is not me.
It is not me.
It can’t be me.

I should be able to grab the monkey bars,
pull myself up and make it to the other side.
I should be able to put those words on paper,
hundreds and hundreds of words.

I live on paper.
That is my heart’s playground,
26 letters to rearrange at my own whim,
It is my favorite game.

You are weaved through the
thump,

thump,

thumps.

You belong on my paper.

1 Comment

Filed under Poetry

One response to “Broken

  1. Love it! Great stuff! You’ve got my follow. Check out my comedy blog and give it a follow if you like it!

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