I am a stranger
To warmth,
Some long-lost
Relative,
So many times
Removed.
I wish to feel
Your touch without
Guilt,
Without pain,
Without the feeling
That your hands
Pass
Right through me;
That we never
Touched at all.
I know I wasn't always
This way,
Do you?
You take me at my word,
And you take
My word with naïveté:
Just because
You have dreamt it
You think
This ghost
Will rise from the grave.
You think
It is possible to fix
A man
In his entirety,
Rather than
Just putting the pieces
Back together.
You are picking up
Shards of glass
And thinking that you
Can repair
That ornament to precisely
As it was
With just a little glue.
A thousand little
Jagged shards; oft
Too small to see,
And yet
You think you can
Make me back
Into someone you never
Knew.
You think you can
Stick me back
Together
And that the cracks
Will not show.
You claim realism to be
Pessimism,
But I just don't
Want your expectations to
Exceed what you -
What any person,
Really -
Can do.
You will cut
Your fingers
Upon the glass,
Scarring yourself as
You believe
That the sweat, the blood,
The tears
Will bring your
Effort to
Fruition.
Try as I may,
You will not
Be convinced, and yet
My conscience still
Flails about when
I close
My eyes.
You think
You are doing something
Noble.
I think you must know,
In some
Suppressed
And silenced corner
Of your mind
That scars never truly heal,
They only
Fade.
YOU ARE READING
Refraction.
PoetrySo many aspects, colours and themes make up our experiences. Truly, is anything entirely good or entirely bad? Upon weighing up the positives and negatives of the past, do we not admit that even tragedy is- in a twisted sort of way- advantageous? O...
