sometimes I think of you when I'm entwined in the vines that grow in my head,
when they spill from the garden in which they were sown
and strangle me with the memories of you that have rooted so deeply.
over time I've come to find that a potted plant is easy to crack when it's made of paper,
with no shell to hold back the overgrowth
it will flood.
and if somebody asks me again why I keep living under a rain cloud
I'll tell them it's because I think drowning is fun,
that when I'm under the water looking up at the surface
I find solace in seeing the distortion of the world
and you,
a mirage that seems so clear in these visions of mine,
so detailed that the lines are brush strokes depicting
the veins of a heart torn in two,
an anatomy of what happens when people break themselves in half for someone
who is already whole.
and I'll tell you,
I'm tired of bleeding out imagery and metaphors
and writing poems nobody will ever read,
just trying to find some comfort in knowing that I am the only one
whose mind breaks like a sentence unfinished,
where I'm reading the last few lines over and over again looking for the meaning of the whole thing.
and I wish I'd have set myself on fire
because at least the destruction of the pages wouldn't let me be reminded of an open ending
where there are fifty pages left
and all I have is a pen without ink.
YOU ARE READING
The Anatomy of Wreckage
Poetrya collection of poetry and prose that focuses on dissecting the ruined parts of me. this collection is unorganized and unstructured as it is ongoing.
