Tag Archives: heart

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.

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Heart to my Head

Hey you,

Up there,

Yea you, 

Don’t look away,

It won’t work.

I see everything

That’s right, 

You think about it 

Up there,

But you feel it

Down here.

I control if a thought

Lingers with ache 

Or washes over you

With joy.

I’m the key to your

Moral compass,

Always a pulse away 

From empathy

Or dissociation.

I don’t always get 

Things right,

But I’m usually on beat.

You can argue 

Any case,

I am always

The jury, 

But I know 

What you can live with. 

I’m a diary that

Doesn’t need to be written,

But I’m what puts the soul

In your poetry.

It’s not a contest, 

Your cinematic imagery 

Works in harmony

With my vibes, 

Elevating their weight. 

So don’t forget

I’m here, 

When it’s hard,

I’m not being cruel, 

But I know what 

You need

To be you. 

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No Control

This feeling isn’t new.
It’s like a skydiver has taken my heart as a parachute.
Free falling.
My heart holding on as it folds into itself,
Against the pressure of the wind and the view,
The ground growing closer,
Dots becoming shapes,
Shades of green and brown
Turning into backyards and farms.
When is the cord going to be pulled?
When is the relief going to come?
So that I know that my heart
Isn’t going to go splat on the sidewalk
Next to the promises that I made to myself.
I wear my heart on my sleeve,
Not in a romantic kind of way,
But in a truth kind of way,
In a goodness kind of way.
And yet, here I am again,
Losing the ground beneath my feet,
Air getting lost on the way to my lungs,
All because I trusted myself,
To squish down the feelings that are
Fighting a civil war in my chest.
I promised I wasn’t going to allow a person to be my trigger,
But what can I do if I gave them the bullet?

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A Drift 

I’m a nomad,

With a home,

Not far away

But long enough.
 

A pink pillow

The only clue

Where I lay,

Where I’m safe.
 

Breath of air

Feeds wandering eyes

Feet turned backwards

Heart looks forward.
 

I’m a nomad,

No clear direction

Birds fly east

Toward beginnings.
 

Only one pair

On the path

My fingers reach

Grasping at air.
 

A northern star

Fades at dark,

The story unclear,

But I’m here.

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Self Preservation 

You desend in your confidence

A hot mess in an open valley,

The pivotal pixel in any image,

The negative to my dark room.
 

You demand to command

With your hands on my hips

Keeping me in your space

So that only eyes are in focus.
 

I saw a boy I once knew

But now a jaded soul

Has replaced a smile

That was once so comforting.
 

So much has been spent

With tiny pieces of heart

Every time that boy asked

I gave away so effortlessly.
 

Senses renewed

With the feel of his lips

But the heart crumbles

With memory of its losses.
 

I’ve given what I can give

Without interrupting its beats

Just learning new melodies

To the pieces that still fit.
 

This time a man claims

For my heart in my palms

But my fingers grow around it

Saving me from harm.
 

His heart has grown

With pieces of me,

But I am only a fraction

Of who I once could be.

(I would love some feedback!)

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Naive

I write

so that you and I

can come alive.

 

In these 8 x 11 borders

we can be free

to know we can breathe.

 

Eyes can peer

fingers may hold us

but we don’t fuss

 

We are alive

taking long walks

across each lined block.

 

Greeting our fellow

vowels and consonants

that make our love sonnet.

 

Our only fault

to think we are immortal

when we are written in pencil.

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Blinded

Remember the sunset.

This line walks through my head.

A prayer?

A plea?

 

Damn, you make things so hard.

Hard to move,

Hard to see,

Everything just hard.

 

I’ve lost feeling,

intermittent joy,

my poetry is lifeless,

no great written epiphanies.

 

I sit

in a great dark room,

indian style,

hands in my lap.

 

Visitors don’t come and go,

food does not slide under the door,

just me and the silence,

the sunset painted on the walls.

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