Poetry

I came wounded

Mon vide, you are a sailor, sea-swallowed and sea-spat. Your days on ship are spent with memories of your feet in the sand, and the nights on land forget to cradle you like the sea.

It just so happens that I am filled with such unclaimed misery, I am convinced I smell of asphodel. There the pain, cumulative of all lives lived, is mine. Though not in flesh, it blooms for me, fresh.

How much can I write about a pain that refuses to lessen? Sometimes I think it will be easier to drink the ocean than to sink and sink further.

Forgive me for seeing beauty in your sufferings, when there was only cruelty.

The days I meet you, I am almost convinced, I can wear yellow.

I lost a bit of you and you lost a bit of me, all in translation.

I am trapped with myself. With no one else to be my hell, I am.

I am tired of seeing you in my dreams. I don't want to walk through this memory with the ghost of you again. To see you smile, to see us back underneath the summer sun, is agony. To recall my name, from broken pitches of your last remembered voice, is agony. With that said, again I will wait for you in my dreams tonight.

There isn't much of me that can love. But it is all that is left, and I promise to love you with my remnants.

I hope it never escapes, the longing to call you today. I will hold it in my heart and let it decay, with the rest of me. Ah! Sure I will not forget you, do not fathom that I regret you. Know this, even if untold, I will see you in every spring leaf turned gold.

The word 'prodigy' never found its way near my name. Yet, all I hear from peers who used to be proud, now concerned, is ' you know too much.' And I ask, and I cry.

I forget most in madness, sickness of my heart washes over these delicate memories I hold till they aren't. But something tells me, I will remember you, not as a warning, never that, more like warmth. I will know you as my gentle sun, less harsh than the real one.

I weep in rememberance of the ache that once existed. Not before. I wait for it to die, then I cry for the sapling that grows on its burial floor. This doesn't save me from pain, it just spares no mercy. So I lament for what is and once was.

I want to be like the tides, gentle and roaring. I would try to kiss the moon in one blink and come crashing down in another. But I am not that free. I am this little plant that seeps and stays. My smile depends upon the skies. Even if I hate to admit it, the winter solstice makes me long for warm lights.

It's a poet's inclination. The urge to abandon this domestication and be the gentle beast of the woods. To see curiosity and amazement in the eyes of creatures for once. To have my muse climb trees. To fetch water from roaring streams. I have been civil in my suffering. Now I want to suffer from unusual ailments.