there is poetry digging at my eyelids -
trapped in my ribcage trying to break
through them with every comforting breath i heave.
she wants me to bleed out my words
from clogged veins and count all
the threads in my ripped bedsheets.
if i could
i would dig her out from under the fading
scars in my arms
but the brutality doesn't seem so appealing
poetry is trapped under my fingernails -
painted over and hardened with the gel
of my cushioned smiles and soft
whispers into the pillows of
she does not know how to calculate happiness
like she does my turmoil.
does not know how to read the clock
i long for poetries' words -
but her reckless abandonment of
my specially structured walls
makes for a chaotic storm
filled with screams and cries
coming deep within the recesses of my nightmares.
she doesn't understand the steady beating
of my heart or the comforting way
i hug my pillows when i dream.
she longs for nights spent drowning
in the what-ifs and i'm-not-worth-its that
used to take their hold in my lungs.
i want to apologise to poetry -
tell her i'm sorry i can't
pour into her veins.
that i can't cut out little smiles and
hang them in the rain.
i want to tell her that my shell
is broken down and where i once
thought turmoil and inconsistent shrills
took hold i found a bed of soft grass
but most of all i want poetry back -
i want her to understand that time
doesn't wait for fools and that there
is always sunshine after the rain
(even if it makes for humid weather).
i want her to listen to my steady breathing
and have her develop songs to fit its
want her to finally follow the path that leads
to my freedom and comfortably sit with
me on the cliffs i used to think i could
i fear i've lost poetry under my soul filled whims -
the irony burning me more than my
tears ever could.