untitled 20/08/2017

there are many pieces of shitty poetry
bemoaning the fact
that time can’t be turned back

and there are ten thousand love songs
about ‘the one that got away’
hoping they’ll come back someday

what does become of the broken-hearted?
where does a man turn when he’s fucked up
except to melancholy, and shitty poetry?

maybe the songs are wrong and hearts
can heal but it seems the cracks will always show
remnants of mistakes past, and painful memories

so here’s this man’s dross, his failed attempt
to create something beautiful from his ugliness
to make sense of his lost fucking mind

if I had known then what I know now…
but there’s no point in what-if, no going back
to try to repair cracked bone china with promises that won’t be believed

hole up in a room and write and write and write
until my fingers bleed and my skull shatters
and maybe make sense of my own stupidity

my fingers will heal, eventually. eventually
I’ll make peace with myself once and for all
gather the broken bones and piece them together once more

we’ll both move forward and one day
I’ll be a distant memory as you live a beautiful life
and I will go on fighting as I always do
with my pen as my sword and parchment as shield

but as long as I have writing hands and thoughts in my mind
I’ll write my love in the stars and hope my words
will shine light for you as you go on your way


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