Suffice

 We renovate what we can

If we're able. Often, it's the case, that we learn

Later, what we've done to who we are

And then a sturdy reprimand is in order.

I've sifted through boxes of stored history

Seeking ways to thin inventory

Finding old pieces of paper that tell sad tales 

That sound so similar

To my

Today. 

I want to burn those words... and

Eradicate the proof

That in ten years time

The caged heart has remained

Brutally, the same. 

It's time for growth

Outward. Inward. All around. 

To suffuse my needs into the effort needed

That will yield something warmer

Than my own two hands. 

Grace

 You died 

And the traumatic attachment

Of your death, 

Tore me in two. 

You, and what you must've been through

I still wish to grant you reprieve

From every wrongdoing dealt. 

Life does not allow for what is not

Meant to be. 

And you were meant to be

In the exact design of all you were

And all you serve in memory. 

Whatever you liked,

Deserved your amiable affections 

Your keen assertions 

Accepted. 

There exists a line

Between the action, and

The motive 

Of you.

For all your unspoken reasoning 

Brutal wisdoms flowed. 

I took your word, 

Your look, 

Your unwavering language

Took them all to heart, 

And ate their meaning

In the hope that I would better understand

And deserve your trust. 

The inhalation of my sensitivity

Cooked your nerves

My comprehension levels took a while

To catch up with deeper understandings. 

And in your ever-after

There is no flower I would  not pick

Or pilgrimage after

To lay in honor

At the altar of all you were

And Are. 

Privileged to have come

From 

You.

This Day

 Twisted streams of consciousness

Pecking at me now

The low tapping begun a decade ago

Marks its permanence

With a pronouncement of this day. 

And what of the next, forgetful distracting 

Doing enough to sustain this blunt erosion

Routing frustrations into elsewhere, 

Wherever elsewhere may be. 

Cold walls emphasize their berated presence

They go nowhere, without instruction

And instruction has instructed them to stay, 

Despite the chilly fucked metaphors they bring. 

Whatever these means employ

However they do to see fit these needs

To bang with impunity the need to starve on

The end and processed result is

Putrid.

Bleak outlines, revisit themselves

To look into grayed lavender

That once stood tall in warmth

Accepting and openly deserving

The right to touch and be touched. 

Estranged am I, to who my body became

A dilapidated vessel of comfort, 

Unused, unkempt, and

Denied.