I hold your name on the end of my tongue,
its promises choked back with each letter,
dripping slowly from my grasp,
and I want it to be heard
past this burning in my throat
that refuses to let me inhale beyond the fog.
*Untitled is the title*
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I want to break the binds,
and reject the embrace
I’m stuck in.
I want to sever the knots
in the stitches holding
the hurt inside my head.
I want to scream in the silence
and shatter the glass cage
keeping the numbing ice
pressed against my skin,
when all I need
is the warmth
of gentle fingertips
and the tenderness
of delicately spoken promises.
Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!
I have finally crawled out of the shadows
from under the bed to write you the poem.
You do not deserve my words.
You do not deserve my hurt.
But this,
this is your poem.
You are that stray Lego throwing yourself
on the carpet to cause me pain,
begging me to hurt myself,
so you did not have to take the blame.
You are a first draft.
And if I need to explain the horrors in that statement,
you are a writer
that doesn’t know the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re.’
You are the opposite of poetry.
You are a kindergarten art project.
Everybody wants to spare someone so small,
so they lie,
“Looks great honey.”
I’m dragging my way out of the crawl space,
putting myself in the open,
to write you a poem you won’t even read,
but will try to find the spark notes for.
You are the worst kind of person.
Making me feel stupid for my excitement,
making my feelings seem unjustified,
making my emotions yours.
You always wanted a poem about you,
so here it is.
You are everything I now know to stay away from.
You are my warning signs.
Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!
I’m sorry for all the inspiration I stole from you
without crediting my sources, but do you really
want your name in neon lights, advertising your
roll in my pain? Are you that self conceited that
you’d rather be known for your childish actions,
than never known at all? I apologize for not giving
you this after taking so much from me.
Time is precious, and lonely knows it.
He is a greedy man, stealing moments
that should be spent filling your heart,
not your cup. He locks your mind in a
box, leaving the slideshow of memories
from a time you were not alone. He
leaves your aching heart to mend its
own, knowing your only company is
pain and the numbing substance of
your choosing.
You did not love my talent. You were not
infatuated with the way my mind worked,
bringing simple words together into
visionary pleasures.
You were attracted to my pain, not the poems,
giving me inspiration for my passion. You
fueled both addictions with the bloodless
murder your words committed, each of us
getting a fix through my emotions.
Sometimes tying the metaphors together
with double knotted word play
isn’t enough to describe the pain
behind the tired eyes and strangled mind
of a poet with ropes around their pens,
and strings around their head,
connecting them to every word.
Marysa Writes 