It's hard not to feel persecuted by fate. It seems that every time her turn came up, something happens to snatch it away.
---
Proverbial chip on the shoulder. And she's not entirely a bad person. Or so she thinks. And why is she talking in the third person?
Showing posts with label I am tired. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I am tired. Show all posts
Monday, May 6, 2013
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
And this
briefly explains the writing:
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.
"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.
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