So I have a problem, and I am going to admit it
across these wires and into these pages of pulp
and regret, of memories and dreams, anyway,
I guess it's time for me to quit
dragging these goddamn feet of mine
and just come out with it already.
So here it goes, now that I've got your attention,
both fully and half-heartedly, I have a problem
where if what I am writing cannot
be dedicated to someone or help another
feel better about themselves or a pain
plaguing them as it once plagued me, then
I feel as though I should not write at all.
So when I miss the calming feel of ink
on my skin as it also courses through my veins
and when I miss the cruel yet friendly laughter
of the page I reach out to those I met during
our darkest hours. It is a faulty attempt to
cleanse the ache that one of us is bound to hold
within our soul far too tightly for help to enter.
Which makes it sound as though
I'm using you love, but this is not the case -
you are simply a muse I cannot give up.
You are a strawberry I can neither pick
or dip in chocolate after the bottle of wine
has been totally drained by the both of us.
You are too many untitled pieces and
a drawer full of letters I can't bring
myself to send until after your address
changes for the hundredth time this year.
And now that I've told the whole world
of my problem, my addiction, my shame,
I hope you can forgive me for making it sound
as though I've used you all these years
just to cry enough for my heart
to see clearly again -
just for my blood to return
to these veins of mine
and purge some of this
excess ink building up
I'm going to be honest- I've always admired your writing. There's always been something about it that captured me and pulled me in and I'm not quite sure why.
You have amazing talent, and this poem took two seconds to break my heart.