Look at me in such a troubled place,
dragging all my junk to the lowest
points and parts of me.
I can see it in your footsteps – gone
without a trace, and in the grazed shadow
of your cleft chin – the only part of you
that greets me when I turn up
Will instinct grab both legs
and make you run away again, or make
you bolt the door instead and never
let me in?
Patience is a virtue not a crime –
try to see past the V shape fingers
of this time of mine.
It’s hard as I dangle on the other
side’s state of mind, trying
not to become just your doorway’s point
of view – it is ever watchful of this perpetual
Please see through the distortion
of the peephole’s glass.- remember the
person who would appear and fill
its vacuity with a nonchalance, tranquillity –
a certain gravitas.
But certainly not today as I block
it once more with my swollen eyes and baggage
filled with pins and needles, misery
and foreboding, which I’m sure distorts your view,
as well as my face.
Magnified – the problem as a whole,
when you spy down on me through the perforation
of that damn peephole, just to find your gift –
a basket case – wrapped up with misgivings
and mistrust –
Leaking slightly with my sweats – it has no
shiny label or sweet tastes – I can’t hide
the tears that hide my pain whilst wrapped
up in your self-absorbed disdain –
Love is more a gift and not a prize,
and patience is a virtue, friend o’ mine,
better yet it’s cheap at half the price –
doesn’t cost a dime .
Try harder and see past the V shape fingers
of this time of mine – especially when
dipping expectations take a rise,
and make a fool of you and me, taking off
with all there is to steal inside,
and forces you to forget all the times I tried.
I feel hollow – I’m the only one
on my side – don’t shut me out, let me share
this hairy ride.
Contentment is a fine state and work of art –
something to work on in the future
if we fall apart. I can’t promise virtuoso
or sublime – I can only give you what is in
this fairground picture one frame at a time.
Will you open up the door
to collect your prize, or slam your fear
right in my face trapping the V shape fingers
that you despise?
I feel sorry that your security
has won over me, that any memories
wrapped in fondness went down
in our history
as battles scars as you join me
on my front lines –
but your wounds will heal eventually –
pretty much unlike mine.
Pity is a hurtful frame of mind,
so I’ll gather up my composure
one more time
I’ll be gone soon just like the junk mail
that you find, and everything else
that litters your doorway’s peace of mind.