A single tear swerved the curve of cheek
dragging mascara behind like sorrow lingers
and heavy breath exhales
as if they cost too much
she scrawls out words with
ferocity and intent
weaving their magic to strangle his hold
to lift the weight…
to run while charging
and dive while flying away.
My lonely writer
I do not know you
beside that I am you
on the other side of hurting walls
where your pen moves fast to relieve,
mine mirrors the intensity and speed
Yet we do not see
the kindred hearts peripherally
tasked to bask in yesterday’s misery
The run/chase mode is a game
played by both sexes equally
We want that which confounds,
as bitter taste and painful rejection
are morphine to love amputees
as we flail out bandaged nubs,
gauze flapping, to the site of
careless silouettes dispersing.
....and now your writing baby
occasionally swiping a curl from your eyes
gulping wine that was for sipping, not sedating
encapsulating emotions between stanzas
capturing the empathy of those
who long to purge the feel
I make my elixir bourbon
much like you, to dim the blue
but my veteran ache demands 100 proof…
still I’m writing of lovers lost.
uncaring women in fading photos
only visible in the untwinkle in my eye.
Are the lonely souls tripped up
in sad bastard heart strings
doomed to only love the unaffected?
The obsession with making
the passion spread to an unexpressive other half
is what drives us mad
eventually calousing the affection quotient…
until we all thrive on blissful days passed by
and swearing all ahead are lost.
ghosts who chase the living dead
longing to splash in their shallow puddles.
Copyright © Steve Voorhees