The Writers Voice
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This will be the worst poem I've ever written.
It'll be about you.
Not because you're a horrible person.
Not because you're a boring person.
And definitely not because the person I should
have given myself to will be you in 10 years.
It's just, I'm not sure how to write this. To write down
what you've been to me seems foolish.
How do I put the very motivation to breath in
Should I just slam my body up against the monitor?
Beat the keyboard about my face?
Would that accurately describe how deep you are?
Because it seems the parts of me you reached
aren't visible to most.
Except when I breath.
Every time I see a rain drop, and know the
cup of kings it has rinsed out ages ago.
Every time I can comfort someone in twenty
less words than usual.
Every time I see a pink water fall, cigars from
heaven, and clandestine truck bed rendezvous'.
Still, I can't help but see you, hovering
Speaking the language two people
conjure in those situations.
I hear it echo from the depth of
my imagination, screaming.
It stills my breath, and quickens my
heart. I could die.
The rage that consumes me is met head
on by the confusion that drives me.
Perhaps one day I'll turn the corner and
see you, smiling at me. Ready.
But as for now, I can barely look at you.
And I know that upsets you.
For so many reasons. You need a friend
in me. But you don't do to friends
what you did to me. That is not
friendship. That is not a point to prove
to yourself. It is silent abuse. You remember,
don't you? The kind that makes you kick walls.
The kind you grew up with. But didn't realize it
And I bet the worst thing is that you know
that you have become that wall of passivity
you so violently abhorred when you were
so very young. And that eats at you. I can
smell it from here. I do wish that it wasn't that
way. 'Cause you know me. I'll give even now,
hoping that you'll be ok. It's a cycle.
I can't stop making sure you're sane, and you
can't stop me from doing it.
So are you a passive aggressive manipulator
of someone's good intentions?
Am I a weak minded, codependent nurture-junkie,
gleefully hanging on your every fear?
Are we victim's of ourselves, or of each other?
And SEE?! Even in this, I can't berate you,
I come off implicating both of us.
Maybe it is both of us. But for some reason, I
can't do to you in words what you've done to me in
actions. My heart places no stock in libel
or slander towards you.
Which makes this all the more difficult. It would
make the most sense to just stop all together.
A break would be nice. That way, I could come back
maybe even see you as a person again.
Not as a gaping wound in my innards,
not as a pungent scent of ruin in my hands.
But let's be honest here, in these last few moments.
You couldn't be here without me, and I couldn't
be happy for you from afar.
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