My fresh roots were pulled up,
and I was forced to look upon a green that stretched towards eternity.
The view, overwhelmed by the fresh scent of betrayal,
and I could not yet appreciate another’s harmony.
HOW COULD YOU FORSAKE ME?
We were so good together, dear.
You gave, and you gave, and I spent it well,
Oh man, did I spend it all.
I never knew your return was not promised in your departure,
Or I would’ve never allowed you to leave.
Now I am left like a phone without its charger,
Like a widow unable to grieve.
This is the mid-life crisis of a mind, abused over years of carelessness.
I washed my hands of the filth in twenty-one years of bad decisions,
only to be cut down, trimmed back by a hairdresser
with a clumsy grip on the blade.
She is unaware of what is alive, still good and fruitful,
and with swift pulls, she yanks out, unknowingly,
the heartbeats of my every song, leaves in its absence,
the promise of lifetimes spent dying after a word.
And a fierce war was hedged against ennui,
and in its aftermath lies the inability to grasp from insanity-
a wholesome word, tasteful to the tongue, rich in its melody,
Trying and difficult, a rebel flowing freely.
The halls of the mind are empty, void and decadent.
The only thing that remains, God, spare me,
is the haunting syllables of cellar door,
The echoes of beauty beckoning, “more.”
But the dream festers on inside me, barely alive,
Like a parasite feeding on the brain of a defeated conqueror.
All the while, looking on and out from the darkness to see the adversary- flourishing!
Squeezing, tightening, the flesh pulls together at the top of the mask,
Burrowing down in self-loathing, wallowing in defeat,
Condemned by the stark pain of loss, grief
I WAS ONCE MORE THAN A MEMORY,
My sanity screams,
But no one believes,
And why should they?
I’m just trying, and I’m just dying here.
Gift of God, please.
Return to me.
Explanation: I normally wouldn’t do this, but I suppose I’d rather not have someone say it’s about a lover breaking up with me again.
I personify my ability to write and my muses as lovers that have been in bed with everyone but me. It’s also about my slow-brewing resentment towards more consistent, more brilliant writers, one man in particular who is the main recipient of my envy.