A Horrible Poetic Accident

Here we are, world

At the line between

Trespasses and impasses

And I am left to find

My own path.

Linus:

You waited on the bridge

To see if I showed up again

With my blanket of happiness and security

For Snoopy and Woodstock can

Only do so much.

Your faith flat-lined on Halloween,

Too many holes in your belief,

It was another night God didn’t show.

.

.

Charlie Brown:

You drown yourself in drink,

Finding failure in every past action

Too blind to notice

The hope you gave to others.

Now you pray to the Great Pumpkin:

A god with no promises.

.

.

Charlie Brown and Linus to Lucy:

Bad advice is usually cheap.

Fuck you, Lucy.

Count me as your

Dirty little secret

And breathe normally

As any other day

On the calender

And I will hide

You in my writing

Covering you up

In mist and mystery

So I can allow myself

To forget all in due time.

We can never write

What the people want to hear.

We write for our own

Pleasure and pain

A memory of a long time since past

And twisted corruptions

Of dreams we once knew so well.

They were our children

Our babies

The things we invested

Our lives in

Just to let them die

Bleeding slow on paper.

We are nothing but memories

Planted like seeds

In fields not our own.

I long for a breath

And a dream in sleep

Where you no longer wander

We are rain drops

In a hurricane

And we don’t notice

We are breaths

Caught in the throat

We poets, we gifted few.

We know what to say

When all else fails

It seems that sometimes

My soul is a

Perpetual sunset

It taxes me to think

That you have become

Some inner working

Of my past.

What truly hurts the most

Is you pretend as if

What we had meant nothing

And you hated me from the start

Wishing for my disappearance

With every passing moment

That we spent together.

And now I am here

Making plans for future happiness

And you are off

Retreating to old, abusive habits.

We love to stare at the sun

And breathe in bee stings

Letting go of all false pretenses

Hoping for the ability to pray

For someone to love

Us back.

We love to lay in grass

That has never been cut

Waiting for every disease

To take control of our

Memory and

Flush our systems

Until we no longer breathe

In each others arms.

That slow jam

Those low notes

That mood music

Grinds against the gears

Bringing dreams to an almost

High

State of perfection.

But perfection isn’t that cliche

High fullutent

“Everyone is happy forever”

Idea. Perfection is

All that is human.

We learn through mistakes

Grow through adversity

And become something amazing.

We are words

That have not surfaced.

We haven’t boiled to the top

Haven’t come up in conversation.

We are notes to a song

That haven’t been played.

I am nothing

But a breath of fire

And the ash of a cigarette

A memory of dust

The ground beneath a heel

A shoe to a knife

Your foot to my face

Crush me underneath

And let free my soul.

When I finally got tired of the lies

I came to

And saw a reflection

Of how you saw me.

It was the Mr. Hyde

To my Dr. Jekyll

And I ran to that porcelain god

I used to kneel before

And returned a year and a half’s worth

Of repression into the spiral.

You took what I had carefully molded

And tried to change

What was once known as me.

What is worse is that I let you get away

With all of this slow change.

I become more monster than man

A gross misrepresentation

Of something once so fresh

And vibrant.

Everything has rotted.

And we can’t bear the smell.