Never even Close.
Scrunched face, crunched date.
Door slammed, a morning of arguments:
You were never there,
You don't even care.
I wasn't supposed to do that,
you weren't supposed to be here.
It doesn't matter that I did this,
and that you did that.
It is never enough, you will never become what
you were destined to be.
A day full of silence.
Pondering this, sleeping through that.
Void of dreams,
spoken words and what seemed to be flat.
It is now all uphill from here,
and I don't know if its worth the effort to make it to the other side,
or if it is better to just let it all slide.
A night where I'd prefer not to return
home:
a place without a name
this is but a house,
this is but a attempt at something more
than blood uniting us,
money binding us.
It never really occurred to those from the outside
that things just weren't
more than glass,
liquid,
and never less than fragile, and never more than
solid.
Ice chips that melt as time continues.
Solid only in silence, when the distresses aren't
spoken, providing heat, to enforce a melting pot of
unneeded words of distaste
with each other.
Send it all away,
like a care package thrown haphazardly on the floor,
next to a pit bull
ready to tear through its flesh.
Need it be this way?
Full of a lack of communication:
Its better this way:
When you don't know me anymore than I ever knew you.
Twenty years together and we are but strangers.
Build new relationships upon ones that were never solid
never created;
bonds that disappeared in the first year
with his death,
your depression;
you and your husband's depression.
It was only a matter of time
of seconds, of moments
until it would all shatter, and ten years after it all
fell apart, all things fall apart, you have yet to have reached
something higher, something better,
something of substance, a chance to move on
without the crutches of something higher than you:
something out of a larger picture that may not
quite exist.
A lovely thought to have something to look forward to
after your death attempts and threats of suicide.
But there may be nothing there,
and you never appreciated,
understood,
or cared to have tried
to be there, to provide a chance, to make an effort
towards your creation.
I do not hold your lack of faith,
lack of words, and lack of
trust against you.
I am but a product of a weak being, and a liar.
Both whom never cared much, clinging to something
that would never have succeeded.
At least now I see why it is that it just couldn't be.
It's terrible to have no examples to cling to,
so I will create my own.
Sickened by your requests and glances at me
Judging me as if you have the right,
when you never even tried,
prepared or created
a standing point for my own creation.
My voyages and ventures may never quite be whole,
but they will be closer than that lack of fulfillment of
the meal you created.
Door slammed, a morning of arguments:
You were never there,
You don't even care.
I wasn't supposed to do that,
you weren't supposed to be here.
It doesn't matter that I did this,
and that you did that.
It is never enough, you will never become what
you were destined to be.
A day full of silence.
Pondering this, sleeping through that.
Void of dreams,
spoken words and what seemed to be flat.
It is now all uphill from here,
and I don't know if its worth the effort to make it to the other side,
or if it is better to just let it all slide.
A night where I'd prefer not to return
home:
a place without a name
this is but a house,
this is but a attempt at something more
than blood uniting us,
money binding us.
It never really occurred to those from the outside
that things just weren't
more than glass,
liquid,
and never less than fragile, and never more than
solid.
Ice chips that melt as time continues.
Solid only in silence, when the distresses aren't
spoken, providing heat, to enforce a melting pot of
unneeded words of distaste
with each other.
Send it all away,
like a care package thrown haphazardly on the floor,
next to a pit bull
ready to tear through its flesh.
Need it be this way?
Full of a lack of communication:
Its better this way:
When you don't know me anymore than I ever knew you.
Twenty years together and we are but strangers.
Build new relationships upon ones that were never solid
never created;
bonds that disappeared in the first year
with his death,
your depression;
you and your husband's depression.
It was only a matter of time
of seconds, of moments
until it would all shatter, and ten years after it all
fell apart, all things fall apart, you have yet to have reached
something higher, something better,
something of substance, a chance to move on
without the crutches of something higher than you:
something out of a larger picture that may not
quite exist.
A lovely thought to have something to look forward to
after your death attempts and threats of suicide.
But there may be nothing there,
and you never appreciated,
understood,
or cared to have tried
to be there, to provide a chance, to make an effort
towards your creation.
I do not hold your lack of faith,
lack of words, and lack of
trust against you.
I am but a product of a weak being, and a liar.
Both whom never cared much, clinging to something
that would never have succeeded.
At least now I see why it is that it just couldn't be.
It's terrible to have no examples to cling to,
so I will create my own.
Sickened by your requests and glances at me
Judging me as if you have the right,
when you never even tried,
prepared or created
a standing point for my own creation.
My voyages and ventures may never quite be whole,
but they will be closer than that lack of fulfillment of
the meal you created.