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He will not be the last one I have something meaningful with. He can't be. |
That falling feeling you get when you close your eyes: Sifting shadows, shady substance, Dizzy dancing Tunnel blocks. No help for this, No help for that. Sorrow, apology in action, not meant To harm To tear To rip At your core Like mine was ripped by you... Chewed up, spat out, stamped on, heated, frozen, cut, eaten, defecated... Bitter? Bit. Bye bye, bastard. I guess. I’d rather not, But bye. So, if words are tinted with blood and blade and broken glass, There’s sorrow and apology here-- Just the faintest hint, behind the buzzing cardboard cutout that is The façade-- Broken, dusty, beaten, rusty, Laying in the grass on a cold summer’s day, wishing for the past. Past Broken glass What’s past is past. It doesn’t feel like that sometimes. And this won’t be the last time, and the knowledge keeps going; This won’t be the last time... A promise, sent on lips that taste like bile, A promise An oath A vow Rose mouth Roses mouth Buds, green and brown, and this won’t be the last time. Puff as it’s promised. This won’t be the last time. Thought, not. Knowledge, Pulsing through cerebral cavities, no shadow of a doubt. Wires connect Future remembered Past prophesized. Now is dead, now is dead, But this won’t be the last time. This can’t be the last time. If it is, there is nothing much To pulse for Connect for Breathe for Kill for. So knowledge flies, prevails, facts are etched in Stone. Stoned. Puff as you pass and promise this won’t be the last time With the heart With the love. Promise there will be another Boy Man Someone To promise on lips full of roses Eyes full of emeralds Hands full of fire, And promises make with mumbling mouth, numb, open, parted Quiet. Because this can’t be the last time And you won’t be the last one I fall for. Falling... Sensing... Close your eyes. *My first poem, like... ever. Let me know if you like or hate it* |