Growing old is getting old,
And to catch and release the smallest anxieties that make themselves a part of me.
For crumbled photos make crooked sounds,
As crooked is how damaged we were.
But this time I won’t blame myself-
Call me sick,
As every “bubble-gummed” love poem-
Was a desperate attempt to cover up my fatigue.
For a heartache was not an over the counter problem easily fixed by saying sorry.
But you’re the crack-crack-crack in that crooked mirror.
Like a spider you’ve weaved your web,
Web of lies and transformations.
But I’d admit-
I picked my fights.
But you beaten every truth out of me while kissing others and but begged to stay another while longer.
If I could act on my revenge-
Should I? Would I?
Digging up holes just wouldn’t be the same-
I may have dirt between my nails but from digging up my old dreams and dusting off the body you left and acted like nothing was wrong.
I hope that for every drive past my house that it gets to you.
For I wish every drugged induced smoke that fills you up hurts you harder than the self medications you would hide and allowed me to heal.
But it makes no difference in this life,
As even with riches you’re still down on luck.
But you never came around-
And you never looked back,
So pour a drink, go read a book, put if off for another day-
Another year, maybe a new life.
Go march around in circles in the back when you’re wide awake
Go think about what you’d rather do and pass it up again,
You see I’m not really like you,
I mean I liked you-
But it’s a fragmented reality created by love on tv,
Like how you fabricate romances like mad libs on a children’s book.