Hate (part one?)

Hate weighs on the soul
My energy is drained to the point
Where I cannot muster a vowel
To retell the story of why your
Existence in my heart is detestable.

This victim’s song is familiar
And I hum it softly to myself at times
So soothing is the searing repugnance
That I soon find myself crouched in.
A wounded man’s paradise;
Lulled into a cold slumber
From the melody.

Motionless and satisfied.
Happy from the reality I’ve built:
That everyone is malevolent
Way deep on the inside.
I smile from the safety of knowing that
I won’t ever have to try again;
Underneath the weight of
Grave vulnerability.

Offense hitches itself to the hip of the heart
And transitions with me from one stage in life
To the next.
Disappointment thick on my skin;
Covers;
Radiating from me like an aura
That glows with sweet disdain;
The façade of sweet tolerance and longsuffering
Attempts at masking my heartache,
While the pungent odor
Of hatred slowly seeps it way through.

Truthfully,
I have grown wary of the mourner’s sackcloth
And the chains of the slave.
The musty stench of disappointment
Lingering,
Makes me long for fresh air.
I need emancipation from
This place
And the courage to flee
This foggy disposition.

Hidden (The Meaner Half)

Repressed motives

Shine behind waiting, innocent

Eyes.

Fondness lies in the wake.

Ready to grasp bits of

Warmth,

And

Steal away seconds of

Undivided attention

Before becoming the

Object of jealousy.

Quiet, selfish, and set.

Hidden points of interest exist

Despite the

Depths of another bond.

Betrayal waits,

Prepared to make a mockery

Out of tried-and-true friendship.

…a misguided passion

Taking advantage of actual love.

*written May 12, 2009

Suicide. (Mini-Series. Part 8)

“What doesn’t kill you
Makes you stronger.”
Well, I wish that
I were dead.
I wish I could be a fatality
And not a survivor
...of heartbreak.

Fields of Battle (Working Title)

The plain of my love for you

Is more like a battlefield

Than an open pasture where

The possibilities are endless,

And the hopes are high.

I feel compelled to crouch,

Position my heart low, and fight

Than spread my wings

For a flight’s anticipation.

I would much rather

Stretch out contentedly

Extend my legs and fingertips

To take in each blade of green

And ray of sunlight.

But,

Instead the ground is mud and soot;

Where I place one careful footstep

After the other.

Cautious and afraid,

Passing by dilapidated buildings…

In an area that was once my home.

Left-Out for Leftovers

I’m the girl made for
Second thoughts,
Lukewarm hand-me-down gestures,
And affections in the form of
His leftovers.

Figured I would be first in line
For
His fondness;
Yet I see that
My place had the stability
Of quicksand.

The [intimate] nickname I displayed proudly
Was not gold-plated or permanently mounted high,
Rather,
One of those thin, interchangeable
Plastic tags that can be switched
With another,
When there’s an adjustment in personnel.

I certainly have my pride.
So, I will quietly gather
What rightfully belongs to me
And love myself,
From now on…