Chain-Link Fence

After much contemplation, I’ve decided to just post the poem and allow everyone to interpret it how they please. 

 

The chain-link fence stands ten feet tall,

twice my height with barbed wire curled

between the thin metal links.

 

I stare at the fence-at my memories

keeping the dreams within perimeters,

the nightmares hidden in the spikes

protruding every other inch.

 

Everything inside, slightly out of focus,

my eyes drawn in by the shine of your

teeth reflecting on the barrier.

 

Your eyes held no shine at all,

a dull, lifeless pair of marbles,

leafy green like that of virgin

Mary’s fine rags. (What an irony)

 

I was before the fragmentary fence,

the construction carrying on as the

events played out.

 

I remained on the outside with the

wolf, his breath tickling my nostrils

with the snarls amplifying the weight

of his words-

 

How beautiful the flower had grown

to become, what a shame the stem

couldn’t live up to the petals.

 

You did not take the Mary from my

name, but only if we speak in

technicalities.

 

Just because the fence bares many

holes, does not mean it is fine to

claim one over others because you

like the way it looks in your possession.

 

Just because you steal one, does not

mean it will not affect the rest, they are

all still connected to one another.

It was of no surprise to me that

everyone liked you- a wolf in

sheeps clothing knows its disguise.

 

I knew you from when you were but

a florist, until it was decided that I

no longer needed your services.

 

You climbed your way into my garden

and ripped up the roots that would

have otherwise become the chain-

link of opportunities.

 

When planted in the flowerbed, I can

no longer take chances with adding

color to my monochromatic theme.

 

I almost miss the time I was too young

to realize the grower was becoming a

flesh-hungry animal, ready to pounce

on the dandelion who’d finally become

a rose.

 

I used my thorns like the barbed wire,

attempting to keep you out of my garth.

 

But the second time you tried to plant

seeds in soil that wasn’t yours, you

complimented my ability to maintain

the overgrowth.

 

I did not tell you it was prohibited, Instead

let you finish building the chain-link fence

connecting memories to anxiety.

 

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Stolen

I hang half-dead on a wall,

displayed and gagged with fear,

I am mute,

the vise tightening against my throat,

fingertips litter the crime scene.

 

My body was once a temple,

before you entered with your servants,

and ransacked all that belonged to me.

 

You left me chained to concrete,

my insides broken,

and my voice on mute.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, now available on amazon.

Monster’s Shadow

I don’t always know why I walk in the monster’s shadow. Just that it seems like a good refuse from a blinding sun, a place to cool off after running for so long. I don’t know why I walk in the monster’s shadow, but it draws me in like a magnet, then holds me in the dark just long enough that I don’t think I’ll ever see light again.

 


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, now available on amazon.

You Before Me (I’m Not Mad, Just Broken)

Phil Kaye taught me that

if you repeat something enough,

it loses its meaning.

 

I have spent so much time

trying to give purpose to your life

that I have lost my own.

 

I do not know how to tell you

that I am a hypocrite.

 

I spend so many hours

coaxing the safety back on your gun,

with a finger on my own trigger.

 

I convince you to live

while planning my death.

 

I hold hands with my demons

while breaking down yours.

 

I do not know how to ask for help

because you always request it first.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, now available on amazon.

Sacrificing Angels

I know it’s not my best piece, and normally something such as this would be discarded, but I’ll share anyway. 

 

I ask my demons why,

bribing them with angels.

 

They chew on the halos

like teething rottweilers.

 

Their diet is a fad

made of my happiness.

 

They strip me to bone,

then tell me my fears;

 

“Don’t worry my child,

it’s all in good fun.”


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, now available on amazon.

Clean

It has been six months / but sometimes / I still think of you / still miss the refuge I found in you / miss the way were my medication / calming the pain / my brain couldn’t cope with on its own / It has been six months / but sometimes / I still miss you / I search / for a new addiction / writing my stories in poems / instead of my… / sometimes I still miss you / still miss the way you helped / in some sick and twisted way / still miss you / but no longer need you / no longer itch for your touch / when I can’t feel my own / no longer read the stories in my scars / instead hide them in my words / It has been six months / but sometimes / I still think of you / still miss you / but never need you.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, now available on amazon.