I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know what it is with this feeling I don’t want to let go
but I know I’m no longer healing
I can see the happiness congealing
into little pools. …
when I pass by
i see the reflection of only a fool
who keeps trying to jump over the puddle forgetting it’s a river
forcing myself to Drown,
pressing down
into a sliver of hope
waiting for it to Hold my body
and help me Float
Flow freely, I don’t wanna keep repeating these same mistakes
waiting and hoping for love to grow,
but it won’t,
how could it when I raise the stakes every day.
This is loves game to play,
bounce the heart back-and-forth between what is real
and what is my reality,
what is real to me?
I only shorten that time by the time I spend questioning
the time I spend assuring
that deception is luring and
obscuring the clarity,
the hilarity is the severity
of how disparity takes a hold of me
and I see that I can see
but I’m blind to the outcome,
trying to outrun
the inevitability that this journey is done, drug me down turned me into someone that is no longer some one’s
present and certainly not future…
it’s fear is pure.
Born out of hell for the last two years. And now I can see
how I am responsible for these
about to be tears.. .
All the hypocrisy
coming from my broken mirror.
No wonder it all looks mispieced
and no wonder my perception
is not perceived the way that I can, conceptually
this is a malfunctioning plan
if I expect to somehow reflect
these jagged edges
and expect you to understand
and make them smooth
and cut clean like hedges..
still broken and rebuilt
but preferred to stack my brokenness tidy and esthetically,
brick by brick of emotion
as to predict the pattern accordingly, unfortunately
or a misfortune for me
or perhaps it is all jumbled beautifully, but when you look you see
shattered and shredded stories
staring back at you
from your imagery of truth,
and hear from your preferred tuning
in or tuning out of the details
expressed through,
communicating empathy.
and the reply is emptily
offering empty hearts,
easily breaking apart ,
what little is left of loves art