pretty in pink
poetry
“I surrender my
desire to be healed. The blurriness of being alive.”
sometimes it’s just easiest
to run from painful agony
brought on the soul of someone
unbecoming.
the smell of burnt umber,
taste of rotten bone and
the sight of the dirt road,
now covered in weeds from
weeks of un-travel —
the road less traveled doesn’t
quite have the right ring to it.
i’m weary, let me rest my head
on the coffin they call hope.
- ( @wret–ched ) 2018
There are songs I sing along
A perfect recitation every time,
Yet can not recall the words
Disembodied from the harmony.
Places I have traveled
And upon arriving
Could not retrace the path
Having only paid attention
To the road but not the turns,
The concrete but not the way
It tugged and let me follow it home.
Memory weaves a crooked tale
And upon a crooked frame
It still dares to stand
And tell me who I am.
With gallery grace
And arena acoustics,
Gladiator gravitas
Let me make some things clear.
I tell warped stories so woeful
That listeners lips curl into a frown
And getting stuck that way
I create monuments to my own sorrow
Just to insure I’ll be remembered.
As any poet I spout forth
Enough hot air
To raise the balloon,
Even if it’s just to let it crash
When I’m lost for words.
For my diction though expansive
Can’t ever get the whole truth out,
Every new term I learn
Only dances around the crux of the matter.
With gallery grace
And arena acoustics,
Gladiator gravitas
Let me make some things unclear.
Where does my valour lie?
Which ditch do I need
To kick a spade at
To dig it up and dust it off?
Would it even be salvageable
And if it is, could I trust
That it was ever truly mine?
If it fits so foreign
And slopes off my shoulders
Far too broad
It can’t have been made for me.
What waterproofing can I spread
At all the seals
So I’m not undone at the
First sign of calamity.
Do the stars tire
Of holding up the night
With linked arms
And sagging spines,
In the same way I grow weary
Of holding my head up
Of putting one foot
In front of the other
When I’d rather put my back to the soil
And my toes to the sky?
Memory weaves a crooked tale
And upon a crooked frame
I also crooked refuse to play this game.
Not severing roots
But forgetting the dirt they grew in,
Never ignoring my own past
But stubborn as a mule
And steady as a tractor
I now set my own course.
With gallery grace
And arena acoustics,
Gladiator gravitas
Let me say just one more thing
I am the last of my kind
Like Pluto far off
Almost forgotten
But still reflecting light
I travel through the night
Revolving around the sun
Yearning for warmth,
Yet content because
For evermore I shall circle my master.
- Vagabond Prophet
