Short Sentences, Long Winded

All that matters are the words,
It’s absurd, to think a thing as fickle as desire would
Clear out the field of players that wield axes,
Come from battles they lose,
Over and over, you know
I often don’t understand the terms you use
Though I love to hear you spin
Your story, beat by beat because
None of it,
Not you, not me
Ever had to make sense,
Tie me up and rip me down
I’ll just let you walk,
Knee deep through my matter,
I’m scattered
My lips are battered from
Chewing the words instead of
Telling you, I was here
Long before your arrival.

Don’t pretend, I amend
My story, I’m no downer
Except you keep dipping low
Where ups reverse
their flow.

When you get sick, do you prefer to go it alone or be doted upon by a friend, partner, or parent? Do you usually go to work or school or stay home?
Wow is this appropriate for me today!
I had a wound that was pretty well healed until a week ago, and now my body is pouring forth the chemicals of sickness and sorrow, and all that comes along with life's many tribulations.
Most often, when finding that a stage like this has approached the present, I prefer to handle it on my own.
Who wants to be around a sick person?

Even those that love me the most, wanting to lay in bed with me, or come over in the middle of the night to care for me are pushed away.
I miss them as I push them, but in the end I feel better, more empowered.
I write until I need to rest, read when I'm feeling well enough, and watch films of various foreign languages to keep my phonetic abilities in shape. I write sad poems that are open to inferences -which are ususally wrong- and test my narrative skills by jotting down the thoughts of a person without a voice, and theoretically fictional.

My hair's finally growing out. Grazing the tops of my shoulder blades, it falls softly in front of my face, and I smile because I'm starting to resemble the lovely girl with cascading ringlets I was just a year ago.

Everytime I ask a question I'm told to write.

Dear scribblers, artists, fondlers, and music makers,
I wish for you a lovely fast paced Monday. As for me, I wish for hibernation beneath the quilts with hot black tea, paper, pens, and books.

Melancholy Bloodstream

Sore heart I beg you to continue on beating.
The past bears the heaviest load of pain and I
Cannot carry the burden it unloads upon my present
I don’t. Don’t want to see faces in my dreams
Because the thought of love being ignored with doubt
With the ignorant certainty of finding a pearl in a broken clam shell,
Turns my Love to dust when once it was so alive.

A stomach full of flies and no butter
Feeding on afterthoughts like parasites
I plead, dearest muscle keep pumping and I
Will nourish you with hope,
Coddle you with sweet something’s,
Kiss you awake with unspoken promises.

The abundance of what awaits beckons impatiently
Missing you though it hasn’t met you
Yet.