Wednesday, June 20, 2012

And this

briefly explains the writing:
"Poetry is what happens when nothing else can."
 Charles Bukowski

Whereas I have found a way to silence the truth in my heart. With patience to forget.

Forget the season where we blossomed. Forget the words that wound; misread missives of almost adoration. Forget the desperation to believe the promises read between the lines. Forget the place that welcomed us too easily with music and beer. The w[h]ining and the dining.

Forget the place where it all began -- offering memories and the sound of a name all too familiar. Forget the mismatched interiors gloriously kitsch. Forget the firmament rendered uneven by waves of beings desperate for connection. Like us, perhaps?

Forget the night. And the passion it brought, how it urged us to curve seamlessly into each other. Forget how it seemed like our bodies knew the map of our souls before we touched. Before we met. Forget how that felt. Forget the scribbles, the box, and the bottle. Forget today. And tomorrow. And everything. Forget that magical place. In between some kind of forgotten wonder.

X marked the spot where we stood, and Y stands for all the unanswered questions we collected like coins to get to this point. Forget the coins, currencies of feeling. Forget the song, the sound and the girl you could not possess because you came but did not see. Forget the flight, the tentative unfurling of gossamer wings.

Forget the hunger to see, the longing to hold. Forget the girl whose hand you were afraid to touch. Forget the questions. Forget what have we here. What we had. We are but bobbing heads eagerly awaiting that some thing to believe in.

Forget everything.

Forget because forgetting is the first step to stop the scarring.

Forget.

Because we wound ourselves --- again and again -- by remembering.


5 comments:

  1. Exorcise the ghost. In the demise of the wanting spirit, then we shall meet. The clanging of the chain past and the allure of the promised lyre never will be a symphony. Forget you say yet the heart remains bridled.

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  2. When you wish to play the wit, you sometimes wander a little from the truth, so says my friend's status message. And I agree.

    Perhaps where my muse is concerned, my heart will always remain bridled in ways that I can't even begin to explain.

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  3. A peasant I am, whose view is but limited to what the blinders will allow. With but a glimpse of your hearts content, this sorry creature surmised through the divinely weaved literaries a silhouette so offensive and strange from the truth. Truth. Your heart and what lies in it, known only to you and your muse.

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  4. Sometimes we need to forget how beautiful everything seemed and remember that things break for an equally beautiful reason. Forgetting, too, paves the way for making it new. Conversely, the heart often seeks shelter in what it perceives to be beautiful, tricking the person to believe it is the right one. Always, though, despite the wreckage, it's worth it.

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  5. Precisely why reason should rule the heart. For hearts are slaves to dreams, and promise of forever. But nothing is lost or wasted as wreckage was once a beautiful sonnet of lovers.

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