Poetry

The Choicest Hours

If you feel that you must choose

then please: do not choose me.

I don’t think that I could live

with that fact willingly.

Don’t put a bell on the grave

of these–our memories–

let time and worms be fattened

upon its treasury.

If you should think on this, well,

the notion disabuse.

Leave it behind. Go forward

with all that you did choose.

Poetry

A Gravitational Pull

I think I’ll take a rocketship

and fly it far away,

this world has gotten far too small–

won’t miss me anyway.

I’ll fly directly to the stars

which are so far apart

to constantly remind me of

the scattered, broken heart.

Now was it yours or was it mine?

I hate that I forget.

But all this space will do us good

if I could leave orbit.

Poetry

See It Now

The many things

I could never see before

parade on the empty grounds

of my heart,

loud reminders

of the soft and gentle ways

that she made life better

and

hideous sights

of the grace and beauty

she embodied

Poetry

It’s Just a Heart

The heart is an ugly looking muscle

that has long been made

to look like something

it is not.

The heart has a purpose,

a practicality,

a pulse that gets

the body and the mind

working together by its many

intricate vessels.

The heart is an ugly looking muscle,

that is to say,

it ain’t pretty but we’d all die

without it.

Beauty does not equal function

nor does function equal perfection–

I do not literally die

when I hear how hard you are

on yourself;

my heart keeps beating, aching,

wondering how your heart

clearly ain’t showing you

what every other practical one

sees clearly.

It often skips a beat,

something normally abnormal,

but understandable

when it senses you.

It doesn’t literally die,

it functions like it should.

The heart is an ugly looking muscle

and it’s beating in this imperfect vessel.

This heart is an ugly looking,

imperfect muscle

but it knows a good heart

when it sees it.

Poetry

The Monster

What scared and scarred me more

than the love that I professed

was how I walked away

and my heart did not protest.

Do monsters feel regret

in the deeds they’ve committed?

Do monsters feel reprieve

when these things are admitted?

With a sinking feeling

and a hope it wasn’t true,

my heart and mind agreed

that the true monster was you.