How do I write
like this
in no position to pretend
bent out of a certain shape,
with no mend
unable to act like it
doesn’t hurt
saying to your self,
“It doesn’t work”
not meaning what you mean
or seeing what you are seeing
being the hurt
you have never been before
for what,
a draft, of an open door
adrift, from a wanting shore
you’d been fine,
someone was wanting more
and how can I write
anything different
when you expect the truth
lying ourselves constantly,
saying
“I can make it through”
I can make it, too
You can make it to,
I can’t make it…
whoever said broken hearts
write better poetry
had never been in love
had never woken up
next to you,
what am I supposed to do?
sit a picture of someone else
next to you
and just continue
acting like my body is okay
we were together,
yesterday
I remember
having your scent,
and refusing to wash it off,
that was just today
calling
just to say,
get off my phone,
that was just for play
I never wanted to hang up
that was just a way
of saying love
in a different language
this is hurt,
in a specific anguish
emotions, mangled
a crash with one fatality,
Me
unidentified remains
in an unmarked grave,
see
no one even cares
or believed
like I do
but that’s all gone now,
ado
bid not high enough
auctioned off for
a different level of consciousness,
I guess I wasn’t high enough
wouldn’t stoop any lower,
I wouldn’t lie enough…
what words do I write
in these blanks
and flank them with feelings
while concealing the anger
that chosen was familiar
over a stranger
a pedestrian
who helped you
out of danger
with the bags
or that it was a bluff
a sad attempt at inciting me
instead of inviting me
to show you
this was a way of asking
to see jealousy
but it was not necessary
I had already shown it
you had already known it
since we were then,
I still see that us,
I would have shown you
the same thing
when do I write,
surrender
or do you become the pretender
do you fend off my ego
and I just end up a shell
or do I tell you this:
It was just going to be a kiss,
that you turned
into something else
and now we’ve turned,
to something else
and it hurts
like hell
as a matter of facts,
nothing helps
But why would I write that?
when I am still here
still searching for an answer
that is still there
in some part of a never
that is real
and unclear
until…
I don’t know if ever
because the pain I write alone,
we should be writing
together,
but whatever.
-see
©2015 Cornelious “See” Flowers
@seethepoet
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The Blacktop Prophet 