I was struck with fear, maybe even self-reproach,
At the fact I was overcome with any feeling at all.
My stuttering phrases never connected properly,
And I can see the banal and inane rear their heads between every word.
I’ve been fooling myself all this time that anything I’ve spoken contains substance,
And I spent minutes self indulgent in talking about almost nothing at all.
I’ve spent each waking hour coming to terms with knowing I’ll never articulate what I felt in those moments.
My fingers traced the rim of the glass,
My eyes were locked on the leather in front of me,
Each letter with meaning becoming lodged as a choke between the null sentences.
All I can say is I picture the door swinging open,
Showing a place free from all these perilous times,
And I feel you could show me a sense of purpose,
And these rickety bones of a drifter could be put to use somehow.
I want that empty seat next to me
On every cheapjack train in those stretching neon nights
To no longer feel so void.
The feeling of another’s heat is enough to make the fiend take two steps back.
How can I say this when I can barely look you in the eye?
All these burning insides and crooked joints have foretold my future long ago,
Stalking every action I take across the days,
And I fight the will to defy myself, my God and you.
There’s so many things my health tried to take away from me,
And I submit. No tears can stop it from winning a round from time to time.
I really feel so.
I really feel like I’ve known you for so long.
I want to understand more than I think I do now.
But my thumbs are dug deep in the calluses on my index,
My feet are glued together to stop the tremble looking too obvious,
My eyes fixed below, staring many metres underground.
And I can picture the glass breaking against the wall,
I can see the boot coming down like a thundering mallet,
And I cursed every instinct I felt as I stayed locked and focused on everything I ever was,
And everything I sought to gamble in a game of poor chance.
“It’s just a game”
I said when I slammed my palms into the tiles in that stall,
I forced myself to believe it when I cursed the Lord for what he showed me,
I screeched and pleaded in an attempt to make the ache stop,
But my wellbeing is tearing itself apart,
My guts in a vice, my heart starting to burn.
I never once thought of you, and I’m sorry for that.
I’m sorry for that.
I always thought I could wrestle control of my ever changing state of mind
Before my body started to ache and break.
But here I am, confined to the bed.
We don’t always get what we want I guess.
I’m torn between wanting things to change or resigning myself to the fate I chose,
And the day I age another year is a tick on the time limit I set myself,
Where I use logic as a guise for selfishness,
A fool’s excuse.
My hairline recedes and the reflux is burning the throat, my skin’s starting to cling to my bones and my face is going gaunt.
My tongue barely formulates anything past the trite,
And I still think I could offer you something.
It’s a fool’s thought,
But believe me, I want to.