breathless

my words are poorly placed upon the page
for they are laced with pain
(therefore jagged, ragged)

I rip the lines out from under my skin
(throwing them in and mixing them up)
I cup the water that is falling from my eyes
but the salt does little to disguise the wound inside

 

 

How inconvenient the heart (can be)
often refusing to see
Cruelty.

 

 

Don’t be cruel to me I could say
but that wouldn’t make the pain go away.

So I cut the phrases from between gasps of my breath
(I shiver from the slivers in my throat)
knowing everything I ever wrote
has died (from lack of breath)

 

 

For you took away the air when you left.

Reviews

[Marc Mccune]

superb.
This reminds me of something I wrote, about thoughts on the page being mere iceberg tips.
your words poorly placed on the page, being ripped from under your skin, where the thought behind them remains. And only one who would truly know you, could know the thoughts that go with the written words.

and the last stanza..."everything I ever wrote has died".

[Ted]

Mesmerizing, call me the five star review. When are you being published again?