Posts Tagged ‘writing’

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War Wounds

November 4, 2011

I don’t know when it was

you got so far under my skin,

running through my veins

’til I bleed your favorite color,

and see you reflected

back behind my eyes.

 

I’ve tried running and hiding,

but I just can’t pull away

with the smell of your skin

burned into my mind.

 

So here I am again,

singing that sad refrain

of what might have been,

because time may dull,

but healing hasn’t come.

 

And still I’d do it all again,

even knowing how it ends,

because I just can’t imagine

myself any other way.

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Summer Reunion

August 5, 2011

Memory scorched landscapes

surround the old haunts,

the places filled with specters

of a youth from years

amidst decades already

passed by.

 

Following those ghosts

of friends and summer nights,

remembered thrill

of a shortcut, hopped fences,

torn shirts and bruised knees,

so different, if only

in perspective.

 

But the coolness

of the night breeze,

murmur of night insects,

still welcomes a lingered moment

a long gaze at stars

too often missed on drives,

and deadlines.

 

But it’s not all bad,

all melancholy and memory,

easy as it is to find here.

Now still exists,

new paths, changed landscapes,

town living and growing

down a separate path,

swallowing what was,

as I find my feet again

and wander on.

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Fabrics

June 14, 2011

Living
In the shadows
Of a life
I’ve left behind,
That refuses
To leave me.

Those mistakes
That linger,
Nip and claw
At my dreams,
Fraying the new,
Fresh edges
Of me.

Mending,
With new moments,
Day by day,
While I wonder
When time
Will heal.

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Love Letter

March 7, 2010

Ink
stains fingers,
somehow leaving
blank page
waiting
for a greeting,
a thought,
strained words,
too proper,
guarded,
measured
and weighed,
into something
that can never
reach, touch,
steal
your heart.

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Age

March 5, 2010

Another year
of blurring vision,
early nights,
paid bills,
and more life
spilled into
notebooks,
paper-scraps,
typed pages
that still call me,
pull me away
from warm blankets,
tomorrows promises,
work, all less real
than words,
phrases in wineglasses,
whispering breezes,
all the moments
I grasp after,
dissect and preserve
in my own scientific jargon.