Poems: 190213A - February 19th, 2013

[Robert Morpheal]

190213A
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The line is flawed.
The words are frayed and broken
at either end.
Leaving very little to hang on to
and mostly evading any grasp.

Something strung together,
in a moment of chance,
that was really no chance at all,
only a falling together
of cruel coincidences.

It is the same recurrent pattern
as all the broken love affairs,
with their hidden motives,
their faltering beginnings,
and their sordid ends.

Words are more the lasting epitaphs
than the always short lived
flowers of romance,
where if you banish all the evil
there are no flowers at all.

The page of pure white paper,
and the bed linens share in common
the fact of becoming soiled,
stained in various unspeakable ways,
conveying each their own messages.

Nothing that can be repeated
in polite company.
Something for private journals,
in hopes of keeping out of the tabloids.
No one wants to make the news.

When something becomes torn,
it often leaves pulled threads,
and the language is always torn,
becoming a knotted jumble of threads
evasive of what was truly meant.

It is those poignant misunderstandings
that form the wreckage of our lives,
and why there is always danger,
in how the lines play out,
in their various confrontations.

Commonly deprived of other gestures,
we try to form difficult symbols,
assuming various positions
in the context of others
being stray consonants and vowels.

There is always a message,
but the meaning is more often overlooked,
because there is so much more fiction
then there used to be,
easily turning us into myths to each other.

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190213B
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Boredom does strange things
to the mind.
There seems to be no antidote
to that slow acting poison
that makes its way into the blood.
There is the mounting pressure
of each heartbeat,
in that tell tale panic desire
for the bubble to burst,
rather than pressing against the face,
and getting inside.
Something similar
to an urgent desire to breathe again
breaking loose from the strangle hold.
A feeling of being wrestled down
unable to get up
from under the weight of it all
as it gets heavier and heavier.
No one is saying anything,
other than repeating the count
that seems to stretch into forever
as if the clock has stopped
and you feel crushed.

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190213C
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They keep redefining you
into someone you do not recognize.
Being a victim of twisted relations,
slowly deforms you.
The wrong chemical element
dumped into the wrong formula.
A mixing up of passions,
bringing the wrong reaction.

It feels like salvage,
from a personal wreck.
You hardly recognize your own limbs,
as you pull yourself together.
The feeling of something gone missing
from whatever you once had,
though you cannot recall what it was
or where you actually lost it.

The phantom pain of freedom,
where your choices were all amputated,
leaving their grotesque scars.
Denying it becomes a sacred ritual,
of covering it up with various affirmations.
It all ends up the same, in fact,
no matter how you chance to struggle
to break loose from the trap.

You stopped trying to be someone
when you found it made you insignificant.
The wrong people always came,
and you had no control over the guest list.
You wanted to get out of the cave,
but you were still painting on the walls.
A shadow boxer
you only knocked yourself out.

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