My heart had a fall down and was done dirty.
It's innocence splintered.
It shattered , its existence obliterated into a bazillion barbed shards.
I spent the next years collecting and trading body parts so I can rebuild its shape.
The best I could do was to make my cockles into the semblance of a fist.
I can now have the strength in my chest to bust faces walls, wade through bullshit and well as dig through the China like spaces between us.
I like the fact that sometimes my fist can be gentle enough as your tears.
The biggest appreciation I can muster is that you tore my cavity and shook hands with my disfigured past and softened its blow.
You who could never take no as a viable answer.
You can and will have made me feel you with my everything. And left your most innocent of being right.
there in the broken of knuckle of distrust, lies in shelter safety.
The knocking broken rhythm of romantics, my chest fingers lacing the exquisite memory of a wholeness.
before the world, through a young life against the tides.
To preserve immaculate essences of you, my heart will fight the battles it's needs in the name of love for you're the god of the shatter, you are the new heart living in my centred being.
YOU ARE READING
Salad Days
PoetrySad poems from sad and angry times. Written from a juvenile time (14 years old) to older. That's what you get when you leave a teen to ponder reality. A pen hits reality harder than high school survival. Original Art from Vivianne Rheaume
