Awkward I may be but that not is the sum of me;
I’m made of many broken pieces and lots of falling aparts.
I speak to you with syntax I know you find to be jolting,
But I mean each word I say from the metaphorical heart.
There’s sonnets in my stutters and pentameter in my tone
To match the poetry in the lyrics of the music that you choose,
And whilst we’re worlds apart, in truth, we’re really not that different,
Scared of the same monsters in the dark and what we have to lose.
You are my anthology, both draft and published cover.
You speak to me with gestures, I don’t need to hear your tongue,
To know what it is you’re thinking, because I share what you’re feeling,
And one day we’ll talk it over with cold beer and setting sun.
As well as this blog for all things poetry, I also have a blog where I post all the stories I’ve written. If you’d like to take a look, head over to Telling Tales.
I’ll be posting a link a week to a story if you’re interested – I’ll warn in advance if it’s nsfw but please check the tags on the story before you read!
This week: The Next Step
If I let you in, you’ll burrow through sinew and skin
And rip me asunder.
If I let you under my skin, you’ll see I’m rotten through with sin,
For all I’ve broken. Sullied. Plundered.
If you win, succeed in penetrating my skin,
You’ll realise just how worthless I really am,
And my skin, recoiling from someone so pure, bright, and blinding,
Will boil, burst and bleed. And you will understand
That the skin of a worthless man
Does not deserve your eyes, your arms, your hands.
And finally, your skin will turn, and you’ll leave for good,
Because I am nothing. You cannot stay. Who could?
He’s got blood on his hands and death on his soul,
And the only part he’s ever played is a role.
Impaled on his own portcullis. Shield, heavy and worn,
Deflects. Reflects back self-hatred and borrowed scorn.
When dawn comes calling, it is he who has averted perpetual night,
And, like Bearer Of The Sun, he is the spirit that moves the light,
But still. No peace can yet be granted to him,
He, who does not know what it is to have hope within.