If I Were True

If I were true to myself,
I’d deny you nothing.
Give what could not be taken—
only offered.

If I were strong enough to speak,
I’d say what weakens my heart.
Spill all hidden within—
even from me.

If you wanted me for your own,
You’d repel all others.
Refrain from mentions of potential—
focused elsewhere.


Empty pails

The coolness of
flip phrases
meets blood boiling
hot enough to
brew more trouble.

Hoping words can
absolve you of deeds,
that caresses can
render forgiveness.
Charm in place of
frank apology.

Instead, slanted grin
ridicules my rage,
like unruly flames
taunt empty pails
with hissing steam.


For Three Word Wednesday (http://www.threewordwednesday.com/): absolve, hiss, ridicule


Spitting, hurling
hot sparks.
Randomly they fall
on paper-thin defenses.
Like love letters,
they burn quick ’round the edges.
Chard rims border
a center intact.

Shining, lighting
lacerations sore.
Bright in the
orange-glow of rage.
Like neon signs,
wounds glare with
the poison they contain.
Scars mark our folly
on the records of our skin.

Floating, propelling
progress forward.
With the gait
of an afternoon stroller,
you amble
through frantic flames.
Lost souls never know,
when it is they wander.

Fanning, working
wild fires.
They nudge your body
but never change your course.
Nor spend the oxygen
in your screaming lungs.
Torches shed light
as long as they’re fueled.

Feeding, making
mad fury
the heat ripens it.
Like summer grapes,
anger in your mouth sweeter
as the air grows hotter.
The fruit of nurtured pain
makes for bittersweet wine.


For Three Word Wednesday (http://www.threewordwednesday.com/)
gait, nudge, ripen

The world in my own image

Foolish to think you could express regret where I would.
Your will guides your words independent of my wishes.
You do not speak my intricate language,
Nor would I respect you if you did.
Yet, I hope each time, that you will act as I would,
If I possessed the charm to make desires requests
And bold enough to feast on plump opportunities.
You do not see the chance, and I cannot make the focus any sharper.
Thus, once robust exchanges shrivel to idle chatter.


The thought in your eyes

The thought in your eyes,
that doesn’t travel across your lips,
is putting space between our hands.

The bonds that tie,
in the absence of your firm grip,
are becoming weak and tattered strands.

The hope in my heart,
which doesn’t leave its cold chamber,
is securing a secret from you.

The foot on the stair,
the one that forgot how it came there,
is turned by the conclusions you drew.


Reason falls

Reason falls to pride,
hostile jumps to the fore,
Control over anger slides,
And the demon on your shoulder wants more.

Using my isolation as bait
and your insecurity as the trap,
He dismantles what we create
and turns the tight knots slack.

Who wears the tag of victim
is as clear as our logic.
Yet we both let it begin
and make each other frantic.