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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Biographical · #2193381
Wreckage of my heart
I reside in a prison, the prison of my mind
Eyes are windows to the outside world, one that I can always see, touch, taste
but never truly be in because I'm an inmate;
a ward of the prison between my two ears...
I find myself crippled by fear, fear that buckles my knees,
knees that are riddled with arthritic pain, the pain of losing a child
but I digress -- or do I regress?
Always swirling among the memories, swimming amongst the shipwrecked ruins of my heart
clinging to this piece of driftwood...and that one...
Each piece a memory of something that ought be borne of wanton errors,
resulting in a thousand nights of tears
But alas! The driftwood never would come to fruition
for a cruel fate saw fit to dangle the carrot of a handsome promise
only to rip the wreckage from within my own body
and force me to watch said carrot, string attached, still, fade away slowly in the distance
along with the rest of the driftwood
And slowly it was, an excruciating snail's pace
for I would have rather had the notion ripped from my mind's eye in one fell swoop
than to be tormented by it every night, and every morning, and every waking hour of my being
for the rest of my lonely existence
for I will never get to see his face, nor hear his laugh, nor kiss his cheek
and the impolitic cruelty of the whole thing is that I just can't bear to forget
a memory I never actually had. A Moment I never lived. A Breath I never drew,
for the glimpse of the future I was offered was a tease,
with the offer rescinded almost as swiftly as it had been extended
And yet I'm stuck in the muck of my mind's own biological warfare
as my body declares war on itself from within
and after each episode of dark hole, or Peter Pan in the treehouse, or a sentinel of hope
I'm left to navigate the boiling seas of my feelings with nothing to aid me
but one piece of driftwood after another
almost like stepping stones or lily pads in a pond
I wish it were a pond and not this hellish inferno, thick as molasses, scarlet like fresh blood
from an exsanguinated heart that does not exist exclusively for the purpose of pumping blood
but offers itself up on a platform to be sacrificed over and over, ad nauseum, ad infinitum
and for what? For love?
I didn't fall in love with him for the purpose of losing him
But that's precisely what happened
which brought me to this fresh hell of shipwrecked when are you people going to get it?
It never stops. It never stops! Never stops...STOP --
just stop

40 lines
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2193381