Sonnets for the Comfortably Uncomfortable
and the Too Comfortable, too.
My weakened legs, from having been strung up
by the duplicit puppet master king--
His Majesty was done with me. Strings? Cut,
then bludgeoned me, then back to scurrying,
to find more string, to string more up again,
and rearrange their insides, break them too;
the only member in his audience,
but left me naked here in front of you--
I have no strength to stand, I cannot see,
please cover me and get me somewhere safe.
The insides touched, get them out of me,
you set them aside, and set them all ablaze--
Lights out, another song, strung up again;
my savior serenades his Marionette.
It's true that I have never witnessed true
love, and yes, true, that I have childlike dreams;
in none of them had I forgiven you
for something terrible you'd done to me.
There never was a prince for rescuing,
nor any knight in shining armor, staged,
because a fucking savior I do not need--
something to you I should not have to say.
This masquerade has gone on long enough,
and I will not be settling for lies.
I am a motherfucking princess, sir,
and it's a pity you are fucking blind.
I built my carriage from the ground, here, up--
yes, I am comfortable here, feigning love.
All that Remains
Breathe in, breathe out; I disassociate.
How beautiful you are, unwinding so.
It's me he blindingly depreciates,
I turn a blind eye in swirling smoke.
And now it's settled in my twisted hair,
a crown of flowers tucked behind my ear.
We sat beside each other, but you weren't there;
my voice up to the sky, it's all I hear.
Inhale, exhale, burnt sighs fill up my lungs,
my inside stains charred out with intention;
my love for you is still incredible,
and I for one refuse to love again.
Entombed between the overtones aloof,
you'll find the undertone of I love you.
I know the flowers understand my pain
of being turned into a drug for men.
Elixirs, petal mixtures, lovers slain;
their greed turned overdose, and we for them.
Our faces turned to tales like fairy tales
after they coax us out of silver green.
One to the other brilliant coffin nails;
the price of sweetened purple poppy seed.
Obliteration in the guise of love
when you've been burning us like opiates,
like medicine, to ignore what you've done,
parading like it's matrimonious.
So, go ahead and take another hit--
a garden's last song; you will pay for this.
The purple poppy drinks the sunlight in
quite like her counterpart the pretty hop;
we all begin to feel alright again,
perennials ascending vacant lots.
Right on the edge of twilight, citrus scents
appease desire with few sweetened malt;
the perfect brew to help me to forget,
to help me to remember it's your fault.
Despite your dizzy drunken pleasantries,
perhaps it's time to start owning it.
My every day in total agony;
it must reverberate. You must know it.
God willing, after a bouquet or two,
perhaps this love of mine will die in tune.
Relentless aching terrorizes me,
persistent, chronic, unabated pain;
apprentice sedulous to lying thieves,
addictive tonics foaming at the bay.
Inside my chest, a fist is clenching tight,
decided guest inside my empty cage;
side-effect tryst with sweet cortisol highs
beside my nested bird singing assuage.
For some, their comfort found in healing things,
but I prefer to revel in my pain
because it's you I find in memories,
and here with you is where I will remain.
I'm in the cloud, I'm getting comfortable;
the needle back around the turntable.
I mended that scar with your butterflies
and you had no idea mine looked the same...
my marks were just invisible, inside;
kneeled at your feet, you never once saw me.
Oh yes, I know, I'm dead to you, I'm dead;
you disregard me, you discarded me.
How wrong I was to hold you so sacred--
I don't know how to trust reality.
So this is what those remedies are for,
for setting free the demons haunting me:
forever unread elegies; encore;
My honest love ignored so vauntingly.
I've nothing but these bitter melodies
to slow the hands that strip and pluck in pleas.
A guitar's ringing regulates your heart,
a violin's vibrato vexing... still,
there's nothing like the pain of torn apart,
and nothing heals you like some singing will.
So long as beating hearts long, voices cry;
the instruments true, born within, sigh out.
So long as lying men walk, love will die;
the most sincere of therapies here found.
The bow, the pick, they try to imitate
what wooded hosts hear feathered singers ring,
quite like the way you forged a pretty fake,
a steady hand on bow strums, quivering.
For now, my melody will soothe my soul
so staying here is less uncomfortable.
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