PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Rupturing my ear drums, your boisterous demands.

Mark my words in velvet, and I’ll hold my breath.

Oh, carve your way from clay and lead me somewhere close.  

I saw the light you left on all night, and I could imagine your fingers trembling in the cold.

The winter as your muse, you jot down the words that will lead us to our biggest epiphany.

 Oh, I could imagine you crumbling up a million pieces of paper with perfection in your general direction. 

To write what a heart once felt, and what a hand once held.

 It proves to be a task none much kinder than prudent memories.

With a dull pencil and a bright mind, you’ll find my heart tattered somewhere in the art you create.

I am your drawing board.

Every color you see yourself in, I blind myself from.

Oh, I don’t plan on getting much sleep tonight.

Cause as long as your light stays on, the more my mind wanders back to that path.

The weeds were unruly and the trail was not distinct.

But, you told me that it would lead us to greater things.

 So I took your hand, and pushed every doubt to the back of my mind.

I wore your words like a badge of blind honor,

trusting every syllable as if my life lay in your truth.

We traveled by day never stopping for the night.

 We had time on our side as the world stood a little more still.

 Oh, we headed for completion.

Yeah, I remember babe.

And I wonder in your thoughts go back to that night as well.

 I wonder if somewhere in your words, in those beautiful masterpieces,

if you hide pieces of us in lines of irony and clever tactics.

Well, we never found the meaning we were searching for.

That path was only a dead end, and your words rang out so loud echoing against the slow roll of the lake.

“Sometimes we hit and miss” you told me.

I had to walk that trail alone on the long way home.

I found peace in end and comfort in the cold, but I lost you.

 Those eyes that peered into my soul and stirred up my thoughts making me feel more than alive.

 That voice, that confided in me with such purity.

That reassured me and kept me safe.

Oh, but those fingers.

The ones that spit our lyrical remedies for broken souls.

I can see you tonight, pen in hand, biting your bottom lip.

 You’re making history, but I’m no longer your masterpiece.