geist81

You told me I was beautiful like a shattered mirror, All edge and shine and light.   But, we both forgot that whatever else it may be, it is still, at base, broken.   I do love you sweetness, as much as I love anything. And a damn sight more than I'll ever love myself.   But …and this is either a huge but or maybe nothing at all… I am broken, damaged goods, not sure if I can be fixed.   I've tested myself and been tested by others until destruction.   And a little past.   And some scars run too deep, And some walls are too high, too thick, and too old. I've lost the keys to a lot of those locks anyway. Yet,

I can remember Walking down railroad tracks at midnight, and staring down over town, thinking how clean and peaceful it looked, and how comfortingly thick the silence was, because you were in it with me. You always told me you couldn't quite understand Why I'm so hard on myself I'd always reply, somebody has to be. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Because I know what I'm capable of, how I left one cold and shattered another, like a fist into a mirror. I know that I have to walk away sometimes, because I break things. And people.   Part of me will never be my biggest fan, it knows just how bad I have been, can be and

She moves in grace Through the hurly burly hustle and bustle of her day and the fact that at the end she still has a smile for me, is a wonder Because like Buddy said "There are massive stacks of bad choice in my backyard" And some days I wonder and worry am I that big a bastard or just that good at thinking like one. But maybe the other part of me is right Maybe as long as that sly little smile makes me miss her , and my heart skip beats like the busted machine it is Perhaps I'm not that far gone, and I haven't gotten that bad just yet Maybe it's the bigger and better part of me, the one that just wants to curl up wi

The first days and nights are always the hardest. That's when the halves my heart is in are at their worst. They cry, they scream and beg and tear themselves to pieces.  That old glacial pain descends, with it a metaphorical tightness in the chest that causes deep breaths for real. In.  Ris.   Out. Mel. One half knows it will never have its desire, and has come somewhat to peace with this.  The other is unsure, doubting it will, but still fearful of the outcome, either way.  Both agree though, that the ones they want are far away, almost too far, even though in our arms isn't quite close

It's amazing what you can get used to. To train yourself to even. Experience and time are great aids and teachers in this. They'll get you to the point where you know that what it is you want, what you need isn't what you're going to get or what you should have. That it's better to be alone, best to wander. You learn to spend, and like spending, night staring paint off the walls. Chain smoking, slowly staining the ceiling with nicotine, one breath at a time. For a while, you wrap your arms around yourself, still maintaining the illusion that somebody else might do it for you someday. But soon enough, you'll learn to leave that behind as well.

watching dawn through the window, my head full of the scratch of pen on paper, bringing back memories and wishes drifting through my thoughts like ash on autumn's wind. recursive writing, playing with words and time like legos. it has been miles and what seems like centuries since I saw you last. But you are still like dragons on the winds of the morning to me full of fire and contrary grace. I will take your hands whisper words to you, of a song neither one of us really remember, watching lights down below, glittering like shattered glass. summer's daughter and winter's son.

watching dawn through the window, my head full of the scratch of pen on paper, bringing back memories and wishes drifting through my thoughts like ash on autumn's wind. recursive writing, playing with words and time like legos. it has been miles and what seems like centuries since I saw you last. But you are still like dragons on the winds of the morning to me full of fire and contrary grace. I will take your hands whisper words to you, of a song neither one of us really remember, watching lights down below, glittering like shattered glass. summer's daughter and winter's son.

I haven’t slept, not really, in a week.  I feel wrinkled on the inside.  I’ve had insomnia, to a lesser or greater degree since I can remember.  It’s rarely been this bad or led to these sorts of lessons.  Because insomnia does teach you things. I’ve learned that you can smoke and shower at the same time; you don’t even have to be all that careful.  That metaphorical scar tissue, unlike the real thing, is full of nerve endings, and instead of sensation, they lead to emotion.  Usually anger.  I’ve learned that what is offered won’t be what you get, and neither is what you want.  And that a hot shower is no s

Twenty three steps, twenty four miles of black top, distances too great to cross now.  Twice you left, one running, the second to never return.  Pain and fear meeting confusion.  I'm lost now, and not sure I want to find my way back. When do you reach that point, where you realize you want to be untouchable? Not in the sense of elevation, but that you no longer want the sensation.  Not the hugs and kisses on the cheek of friends, or the idle caress of lovers, but in fact want you want is nothing at all, a move past even numbness.  To not feel, pleasure or pain.  I can remember the times we were curled into each other, hands entwined and you'

Wondering why those sweet nothings turned into just nothings. Confused, hurt and not knowing why. Why I still love you. The fool for whole the lesson goes unlearned, those who attempt to touch fire get burned. Was any of it true, or just said to placate me? As Nietzsche once wrote "It is not that you lied, it is that I can no longer believe you." Even though I still love you.