Tearing Every Thread


I was never at that picnic. It was a figment of me.

With the tree standing softly. I was free. And I was not alone.

Pawing at pebbles, stay close. More chipped and faded polish, please.

It reminds me of her insecurities, and I know I can’t solve much of anything.

In the a.m.

in the blackest part of the morning,

before the blue sets in, I see what I can’t get enough of anymore.

It is that time where nakedness covers and emotions are uncontrollable.

Having the light shine through the cracks of the door can be enough.

Words can appear on the page as expected although unwelcome guests.

The letters settle in my stomach so that I can never forget how she has earned my respect.

The pretentiousness is bleeding everywhere

and these meaningless words portray meaningful feelings.

The abstract dominates entirely while stumbling into concrete clarity.

Eternally reading directions on how or not to be happy.

While emotions steer she is only pretending to be free.

8 thoughts on “Tearing Every Thread

    1. I wasn’t really writing it as a poem but as a loose mixture of thoughts. There really isn’t a difference but I do write with the intention of the piece being a poem often, but at the same time I create things that may as well be poems anyway even if that wasn’t what I originally intended.

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