Some days I feel like laying it
All out on the line.
I'll twist these words called time
And make my own kind of life,
My own kind of rhyme.
I'll take my feelings
Of steel and concrete,
Dissolve the fears I eat
And send them off,
I'll peel and concede,
I can't feel the warmth
In those who peal, in those
Who believe,
Those I admired when I was
So much younger,
More malleable,
More able to cry and complain
Whenever I didn't feel that
Tugging in my brain.
Other days I'm simply
Ascetic. No longer tied
To those lies I splayed,
To the feelings I've
Buried deep inside.
Those are the days
When I finally feel
Like I don't need to miss crying,
When it's easier to throw away lines
That I've cast, the ones I threw when I swallowed
The fear - pushed it deep - and let my guess
Fly into the air and possibly
Perhaps
Land somewhere that'll bite.
No,
Even those days feel like they're lies.
Most days,
The ones when I'm struck stunned
Like lightning
Somewhere in the middle,
Those are the days
I've molded, sculpted,
Built to withstand
Even the most prying hands.
Those are the days
I've built from fake smiles,
Cheeky laughter,
Wet noses, quick wit
Slit throat
Snapping replies
That tell every thought
And worry and fear
Of what I really feel
And really think
And really mean
In two precise words:
I'm fine.
But I'm not fine.
There were days when I used to
Embalm the idea
That I'm a man
Who laughs with both hands,
A man who's smile's as permanent
As the Moon's face.
But in reality I'm afraid of the man inside;
A man who might be peeled back to reveal
His dark side if given a chance,
I'm a man
Who laughs
Because there are days
When he's forgotten how to cry.
YOU ARE READING
Blood As My Ink
PoetryEmotions, beliefs, dreams, and imagination run through the body. Like ink they flow through the vein and, every now and then, it decides to run out.
