Heartbreak Happens

Too true.

Detest me.
Prevent me.
Direct me.
Understand this isn’t because I love the control,
tt’s because I’m comfortable under thumb.
Glassed over with your capable patrols,
I dream of places where you can’t come.
Starken my blistered eyelids into black,
soothing my hopeless windows into life.
Border my shutters with metal as a rack,
twist out the snips and set them on my strife.
I’d adore you in a thousand ways,
until the sun melted skin to butter.
I”ll adore you for a million days,
until you burn my offerings for another.
Supplant me.
Scrub me.
Deviate me.
A love song played on sickly notes,
I’d choke the lies out as they die in my throat.
Play fragrant music that offends the nerves,
disturb the inoculated innocence I sought to preserve.
Wrap on tightly around the collar,
building up bricks laid as cannon fodder.
Sing back the rhymes I hope will carry through,
but it’s all waste and wasteland even to you.
Describe me.
Vilify me.
Sharpen me.
A knife edge on razors surface,
culls back the meat so plentiful with purpose.
Strips back the layers of beautiful sin,
exposes righteously the soul within.
Expounding virtuous betrayals,
never to be found despite the trails.
Leave me.
Spit me.
Vomit me.
I was never what was good for you,
and now I’ll live marred forever,
lost in this lonely zoo.

Melancholy for Anya

A minimal background here….the young girl in the photograph is my daughter. Because of both my actions leading up to the divorce and subsequent relapses, along with a “less then friendly” civility between the mother and myself – I have only seen her once in the last year and change. She’s about a year and a half to put it in perspective. 
Anya's Big Blue Eyes (2)

Some sing songs of longing,

Blazing with desire to find or be found.

A lonesome call to remove the isolation,

From the desperate state of silent night.

For others,

Absent are the sounds once felt.

Or missed because of poor choices.

To have loved and lost is a blessing,

To lose a love over choices given away,

Hurts the way that pain self-inflicted does.

Unswayed by pleas for mercy,

Nowhere to misdirect the blame.

I want to know my daughter,

But all I feel is shame.

Not at the beauty she is sure to be.

Surely not at the creative gleam in her eye.

Not her brilliant hand that will craft a world,

Or her soft skin that will feel the kiss of life daily.

The shame is a shattering indulgence.

A reminder striking loudly of what could have been,

Of where I should have been.

Wanted to be, and missed the closest moments with her –

And those can never be reclaimed.

Because she doesn’t know who daddy is –

And maybe doesn’t even know that I’m not there.

I’m sorry Anya.

I love you even if we aren’t together yet.

 

Small note – even though I only have a short call with her and my son weekly, she spit out a “dada” for me. 🙂