A me that doesn't feel as strongly as I do floats to the surface,
A me that doesn't feel is just that,
Floating.
A me that doesn't care is a me collecting stolen hearts to stack on a ragged bookshelf.
I won't read them again but seeing the pages brings a flicker to my eye.
I bask in the glow of my collection.
I pick their flesh from my teeth with old pages and I breath in the dust of their deteriorating bindings.
A me that doesn't have that humming in their chest,
Replace the hum with drums of war.
A me that holds less heart than he once has, carries kisses in a pill bottle pops one every few hours, don't worry its prescription I would know I wrote it myself.
Faking signatures isn't that hard I've faked much worse,
A light beneath my eyes,
A gentle loving smile,
a persona less beaten down.
Faking a warmth in the winter.
The light behind my eyes slowly slightly dimmer,
My inability to sleep,
tail between my legs,
Gentle whimpers to the moon,
A far deeper dread when I forget to feel the things I felt,
I've lost my keys again the jingles in my head.
A me that isn't me enough will surely not survive,
I'm a speeding ticket away from your doorstep,
You're two drinks and a gallon of self pity from my bed room,
I ran red lights for you,
A me that wouldn't do that isn't me at all.
YOU ARE READING
Whims of a weary traveler
PoetryDo you want to know my life? Do you want to read the whims of a weary traveler? Are you too a lost boy holding the pieces of his life in his hands? Read if you dare know the soul of a wanderer looking for home.
