This is quite possibly the most personal, open poem I have ever written. That will probably strike some as unusual as poetry is usually perceived as a very personal medium, but usually I do not write about myself or my real experiences. I usually try to put myself into a situation and then just imagine how I might feel or act and write from some kind of resonating empathy rather than from some place inside myself. I guess that is one of the reasons why I am an impostor. I write from behind masks all if the time and perhaps that is one reason why my work isn’t as strong as it could be. Perhaps with this piece there will be some more meat on the bone. We shall see I suppose.

I just can’t get you out of my head
Years and distance should have left you like all the rest
Faded filtered through layers of time
A memory of an old photograph seen briefly
Yet you are fresh and clear and bright
Sometimes I think, if I turned around
That you’ll be standing right there under the same street lamp
While the snow falls behind my eyes.

Life hit me full in the face
Sucker punched, I threw in the towel before it landed
Didn’t last the round, retreating
Fleeing the scene having committed to nothing
With you always right on my heels
Faster than my own shadow
Getting there before me wherever I ran
Always thinking I made a clean getaway .

I don’t know why, I have no explanation
So many have been closer longer, deeper than you
Yet you stand out, a colorful blaze in a dusty grey crowd
A longing, an ache, a scar I keep tearing open
Fingers digging at raw, red flesh
Feasting on the rank carrion flavors
Of regret, or loss, or what ifs and maybes
Tasting all the myriad tones of my one bitter hatred.

I use the memory of your hair
Like a flagellant’s scourge, flaying myself ragged and bloody
Till the bones show, till I can suffer the way I need
Pain the only way I can really feel anymore
Just me, my self inflicted agony, a needle and a spoon
Constellations of psychic track marks
Spangling my soul like so many cold iron nails
That I hang the gallery paintings of my failures on.

I bet if you actually just appeared in front of me now
Doll like perfect porcelain
While I poured all this self pitying bullshit out
Staining your shoes with my tears and melodramatic emotional sewage
I bet it wouldn’t even warrant a blink of coal black lash over cool green eye
If all of the times you may have thought of me at all
Between then and now were gathered up
I might just have a small handful of withered leaves
Dropped long and long ago from the limbs of your thought,
Only preserved at all because they were caught
In the hem of your coat.

I have thought of saying I’m sorry
But I choke on the words know they will be faced with the worlds grandest indifference
So I keep silent, because the silences are where I hide, between the words that need to be spoken yet remain dead dumb entombed in fear and doubt
After all, what right have I to intrude myself in a life where I have no relevance
How presumptuous is it to even begin to think
You really remember me at all as anything more than an awkward mistake,
A childhood trial at being grown up before you did it for real
I have no place in your here and now
I barely have a place in the lonely, empty corners
Of your once upon a time
I am not even really writing to you
Just the memory of what you were when I was eighteen and thought I knew what things were all about.

So maybe, just maybe this is it
I will bleed you and all that you stand as the emblem of
Out into this page and the ghost of you
Will no longer sit perched on my shoulder
Red haired little raven
Yet I know, even as I write this that hope is vain
Your voice is already whispering, just like yesterday
And all the yesterdays before
“Never more”


4 Responses to “Open”

  1. ray o'hope Says:

    spirits having flown
    seek simply
    to be left alone
    on their new journey

    your book
    hokds so many
    more interesting tales

    as the last puff
    sent blue smoke
    and gone

    remind yourself
    turn the page

  2. zero de rab Says:

    eye kin spel
    kaynt f#*%n C!!!!!

  3. You are right. The difference when you write from experience is very visible. Perhaps some day it will come from a place of true happiness and not so much sorrow. Great work.

  4. cinq cent encore!

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