Clock on the wall

I replaced your heart with a block of pre charred wood

And then lit it on fire.

No one noticed

You certainly did

I called the fire dept myself

You sat and waited 

I held your hands as tears flowed down your cheeks

Never leaving your eyes

Looking directly into them

I lit fire to your heart, beating still in your chest

just for me

and no one noticed

The arson took place in less than seconds

I watched on the clock in the hall that you personally changed the battery in

The one with the broken plastic shield that kept the paper with the numbers on it, securely in tack

You figured this out,

After breaking the plastic by accident

By dropping the shield on the floor

that that paper was curled in such a way

as to prevent the big and small arms of the clock from turning properly

if the plastic shield was not placed on top

So you fixed it

Taped the cover now broke in two 

with the only tape you could find

replaced the dead battery,

and placed the clock back on the wall.

Unlike your heart,

the clock is still ticking

Goldfinch

I will love you until

the final grasp of my fingers

On the corners of this bed 

We call earth. 

until the silt leaves this  marrow,

And like our chilly breath 

Settling on the corners of this window pane,

You sit like a Goldfinch,

Eating away at my hands, 

Slowing devouring my veins in a single slurp of your soul, 

Sitting inside mine

(much apologizes for the absurdity of this poem. I like some of it. I'm very, very much trying to get back into writing after a year of 2 blog posts, this upsets me.)

Physics?

Time is commodity

Just as currency

Is currency

Just as love

thought

Dimension--it's a line/other stuff?

fields upon fields within this world

The field inside/outside... a feather!

a touch and go...

an ocean
a face

Looking at a wave 

that connects to

the same wave 

That had come from somewhere else...

and goes... inside that instant

it's as thought we have time travel

Somehow we have it all in a wave, crashing onto an opposing ocean shore

(sorry for stupide poem of stupid collected thoughts. I needed this.)

Talking back

I'm not a bad poet

I'm not a bad person

I'm me

I'm worth it

I'll survive

As I have

I love and have loved and will love again

I know what's right

I know what's wrong

I also know what's killing me inside

And what will destroy me 

Absolutely obliterate me

Not that I had a problem

I love how almost anyone who has talked to me about a brief cessation in their alcohol intake (also commonly referred to as 'sobriety') has prefaced this obscenity with 'Not that I had a problem."

(in a sense a brief disclosure in this dialog must be made aware that the aforementioned phrase should be only said in ones head in as nasal kind of a way. And much of the following should as well. Reader's preference, of course.)

Oh dear.

Problems.

I hate to be the one to say this

I guess the bearer of bad news perchance to say ,perchance to express, perchance to dispel the egotistical logic of the moment

But!

OH! DID I HAVE A PROBLEM.

That problem is not so elegantly described as

and not so favorable referred to as

ALCHOLHOLISM.

So I did cease

from the alcohol

OH!

(Until now (what delights!) of course!)

NOT BECAUSE I HAD A PROBLME OR ANHTING!

ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

Yeh No

I did

I so did.

But because I wanted to like

Live.

To live.

Yeh

The Game

So you've found how to throw the ball without looking, very good

You've decided to reserve this token when needed most, good
Most people use them now
You've given up
You no longer care that this wall will limit your chances of future success
Because you're tired
Is that it?

Oh, you've started again because you realize it's just a game,

And there's at least that
You've noticed that even if you hit the target, you've missed,
Because you hitting the target happened outside our view point,
Because we did not see it happen,
You don't get credit

You've realized the complexity of the viewable action, versus the objectivity of the game.

Duplicity.

And no one cares.

And really, no one has time to.

But, when will you discover the line?

Fear

I'd purge, if I felt there was something viable to purge.

I'd cry, if I saw the end of tears.

I'd scratch off my face, if it ended this pain.

I'd kill my own self,

If it only killed the 'self' that feels this way.

If it made sure that version,

That weak, mutable self that I became in your eyes,

Was finally lost into some forest I lead it into, 

As if some wicked, wanton, ill gotten pet.