If I knew the things to say to clear my conscience and your worry,
If I knew the perfect string of thoughts that'd correct our saddened story,
If I knew where my hands would serve best to be upon your tear-stained cheek,
I would not need to write this poem, I would not have comfort left to seek.
What good are words when words don't hurt and words don't heal but actions serve their purpose by the thousands?
If a thousand words are meaningless then what hope do my actions have,
Actions yet misguided by your hurt.
It's in your heart,
The blame.
It's mine to bear.
Back to where it all began, the nature of our faults.
All I can do is watch my actions,
Clockwork at its worst,
Repeating in eerily perfect symmetry,
A rhyme within its verse.
Who knows?
Apparently not us,
But everyone outside the house we built.
Back channel treason, I suppose.
So I wrote this prose.
This distance that we've built,
So physical and real,
I reach out and stretch and break trying to crane my neck,
Just to see you.
But instead I have to miss you.
And all those times I tried to call your name,
I found it tangled in my throat.
So instead I wrote this message,
And I hope that by the end of it I have the courage to send it.
But I won't.
I'll leave it where you go when you leave me on my own,
Within me.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Collection
PoetryA simple collection of my poetry, some gathered from old notebooks and some bespoke writings for this collection. Thanks for reading, please enjoy!
