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Not a Love Story

Ramblings from a Thunderstorm

By Kayli MartinPublished 6 years ago 2 min read
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Freehand art, made with pen and marker.By Kayli Martin

Life is such a complicated intricate thing

Like a rose raveled in silk shimmering petals.

Yet we are creatures, humans,

So disturbed we want to pick them apart one by one.

A symbolism of love.

What is love when the thorns dig deep into your skin,

Penetrating, pulsing, oozing of red blood.

The very essence of your being in liquid form.

It’s coming right out of the seams.

Then explode me, may all of my threads burst,

May I be nothing more than my insides.

May I no longer hide.

Masks of language, touch, emotion.

An outrage of insanity and I feel more in tune with wild wonders.

We excite and disappoint.

We look for a reaction,

Some sort of feeling that may give the moments more meaning,

But we find nothing of the sort.

Instead we are left a heaping heart burst on pavement.

No bandage can heal the damage.

Once a broken plate, always a broken plate.

Does that make it the end?

Why wouldn’t it?

I mean, why drag on and on when the cracks still show?

Sure some say you will gather strength,

What even is strength in this world?

It is a torment of everything I cannot obtain.

Striving to feel more, more of myself, more of something else,

And I fail.

I undo myself, or maybe I tie more knots in the fabrication.

Tightening, loosening, shivering.

It becomes me,

And I don’t know me,

Most times.

Years feeling that way is a wonder I haven’t yet

Exploded to smithereens.

Thoughts cascading angrily with my disturbed spirit.

May my disturbed split fade away,

May it be left as nothing, but decay.

I have found love, and I have let it wash me away.

The satisfaction no longer hides the pain,

Instead it dries up in the baking sun.

I’m here, I’m running on an endless road with no where to go,

I want to go away.

I choose to stay home.

No strength as they call it,

To take it all away.

I mock myself day by day.

I taunt. I creep.

Eventually I’ll gobble myself whole.

No longer will you hear a peep.

My words don’t matter to you nor me.

Why should I speak?

Instead I write in nonrhythmic rhymes,

I write myself mad,

I write for minutes on end till I’ve had enough,

Till I’ve cursed my soul a 100 more times,

And I convince myself it won’t be worth it in the end.

To the day it’ll never begin.

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