I can take
I can take more
I can’t take more?
I can’t take?
I couldn’t take
I couldn’t take more
I can’t take
I can’t take more
I can’t take any more
And now you.
I just can’t
A mind full of faces and places that mean everything and nothing races nowhere. Well, just here. Just here. Unwell.
Where was I when you needed me?
Needed whatever it is one seeks
from another when life deals them
a blow batting them to the lowest
point a person can hit, only
to find you can fall even further
when a friend failed to be a friend?
I was falling too. Falling in
my failure to sail to your aid,
beating myself for listening to
the other voices instead of choosing
my own choices and negating
my nature to nurture those I love.
The cost of becoming lost from
my life’s path was greater than
suffering the wrath of someone
I would never wish to hurt.
But that’s what I do, time after time,
no reason, no rhyme, ever reaping
the bitter fruit sown by a soul
who left the road we walked,
when my shoulders were wide.
I can’t hide from the accusing eyes
reflecting and rejecting the Me
I see not in a mirror, but on these pages
I can’t stop filling with mea culpas
and confessions. But now I know how
to stop the guilt before it can start.
Don’t blindly accede to the advice of others.
Instead, use my head and heed the
Creed of my heart.
Day 12 of NaPoWriMo, where I combined the prompts of penning a poem about Guilt and one that used Alliteration and/or Assonance as feature factors. Hope I’ve accomplished that, as well as the job I try to make most of these reflections do.
I’ve told you stories, a few hung on a lie,
maybe they brought a tear to your eye.
Now about these stories, some told in verse,
seems I wrote them in hopes I’d stop feeling worse.
I’ve told you stories, some hooked to white lies,
and I spun them to not be the man we’d despise.
So you see these stories, they just had to be told,
before I forgot them when I got too old.
I’ve told so many stories, I guess most of them lies,
capturing you, you and you in some form of disguise.
I didn’t tell those stories, even the pure lies,
to make you feel angry I might be another of “those guys.”
So, I’ve told you my story, and the truth’s set me free.
I finally told it when I just couldn’t hold it, you see,
struggling to discern between truth and the lie,
when the story ends and maybe that’s you and I.
A wide-body poem about how the artist’s imagination conflates what’s real and what’s not. He ends up creating something perhaps subconsciously (or not) straddling–if not downright erasing–that line between seeing fact and the view through his cracked prism. I think the meter of this piece was informed by the Jason Isbell’s song Stockholm.