delusion

poetry tangles through my aching synapses,
iambic pentameter loosely woven barely flutters &...collapses.
all my saddest tragedies play through in my head,
my finest lines are all the ones unwritten and unread.
writing is like bleeding, prying ribcage bone from bone.
remember when miles kept you from texas and they kept you alone?
or the days when blue eyed brothers photos filled your chest with memories of better places?
and the way it made you hate the concrete pallored strangers' disinterested faces?
do you remember the ugliness of feeling dead on the inside?
did you smear the ink with grieving? did you write while you cried?
words. my solace is waning, my pretty words are so few,
would you mind if i stayed and wrote this little poem for you?
this pen is the knife that cuts so i can bleed,
pain is not abstract once i write and i read.
this mute keyboard composes tragic requiems in mourning,
of notes i'll never play and things that left without warning.
i wish i could remember every word i'd ever said,
every day that i swam through in this quick life i've lead.
i remember matching blonde girls who draped lace veils over their heads.
'youll be my maid of honor", 8 year old brides always said.
but years taught me that "forever" should never have been said.
how did i let twins mean 'sisters when i can make the time'?
why have i sacrificed my golden rings in snouts of swine?
growing up and growing old, the mirror doesn't look like me,
this isn't the way i wrote the story to be.
the narrative is weak and the heroine is wordy,
she gets on my nerves and she's a little bit nerdy.
thank you for the muse caress and the melancholy haunting.
for chasing ghosts, writing, remembering and wanting.