(no subject)

[springheel]

Pony up.
Homely, lonely, giddy up, homey.
Got a bone to pick with-
no one, I guess-
yet it still seems best not to ingest
the bitter that litters
this keyboard landscape
and papers that I shape into poems.

Twist apart this heart-shaped box.
Pick the locks.
Sickly, slippery tonsil-hockey sloppy bobby pins,
let em in.
Let em begin to make it better,
to make it better,
make it
somehow.

The thing is, I figured I'd be married by now.

I'd figure my roaming would holy shit, matrimony,
not ghost-ridden memory prison.
Not living in unforgiving, bombed-out shell of love,
shove around the rubble into the shape of the struggle.
I keep trying to walk away,
but I saw her again today.

It's the year of the silkworm.

Knife buried to the hilt, turn,
silt, fern,
wilt, burn.
Bower, burl.
Scour world,
why?
I'm already guy minus girl.

And that's what I get.
The bent ventricle turned closed to blood flows,
the high tide-line of pain that grows
and moseys on up skywards
till its overhead.

It is in the left side of a half-empty bed.
It is the rain that stains the scene red.
It is walking alone through a world we built together,
sever that forever that levers
on the destiny in me and shifted it into position.
I was warned it would be this way,
but love never listens.