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Leave Me One More Time
Cut and runners.
Is exactly what we are.
We find a place we like and establish ourselves a life,
and always end up
Up and going away.
Tearing ourselves from where we finally somewhat settled, to just leave.
Once everything is at the peak of greatness, none of us
Could want more,
we only know how to do one thing: run.
from the things we have now because were scared the way we’ll loose everything
will not be in our control.
Never would we give enough time for others
to change anything for us.
We run without knowing what a future in
one place will ever be like.
house to house,
place to place,
from people to people,
and more away from ourselves.
The cold hard truth that we have no clue
who we are
stares us blankly in the face.
Scratching our cheeks,
Straining our eyes,
Stinging our lips,
Stressing our mind
Simply because we will not open our eyes
to the obvious standing along with us.
Never will we realize
we’re scattered and no longer can gather sane words to say.
And it’s not just us.
how scrambled we truly are.
we lose parts of ourselves with every cardboard box.
The people we once were
we’ll never become again.
Little parts of us is left in other places with other people
as we lose it from ourselves.
Taking off at every sight of opportunity we come across.
We run away from ourselves.
Every time those infuriating words cross your lips,
every time your eyes
get that antsy glaze, I tremble.
Knowing what is coming next. The new place.
The new house.
The new joys,
but most of all: the new tears.
Tears that stain as they rain from my cheeks,
pouring straight out of my soul,
too fast to slow down.
Flames ignite my racing thoughts that remind me
over and over and over and over
I will never know one place.
Only will I know:
another word left unsaid.
It is my emotions that are completely mine.
None keen enough
to spot the tears I confide in away from everyone else.
The paper throughout which myself is written all over, is solely
Words that describe my broken self,
through my twisted words is that I live.
My heart beats only from the ink I place along with my soul in the same place.
Through my notebooks, and loose paper,
is where I am most seen.
Where I can somehow find myself once again.
These are the things no one feels along with me.
No one cares enough to try to begin to understand.
I am a poet
with pieces no one reads.
I am a poet
none want to know through my writing.
Through the only way I know myself.
Of all of us- I am the one who has somehow managed to keep a shred of myself close.
Even if I allow no one to know them.
It is what makes me ‘tick,’
the reason I seem sane, how none of my inner destruction shows.
I know that every time you left,
and took me with you, I did not leave myself the way you did.
Floating place to place, from job to job
with nothing grounding you;
there is nothing defining you.
My slab of concrete foundation is, always will be, solid.
Lines get more fury,
words get more strength,
and ideas have a greater meaning.
No matter how much you’ve taken from me,
all that you left me to gather up for myself;
I will always be able to write.
The something I can completely control and manipulate, without anyone else.
Nothing crushing unless I want it to be.
My word I can choose to have a feeling.
The feeling I wish for it to become, my own choice.
I can twist words around my hands and make them do what I
Every thing I can choose on my own, nothing to be shot down by you.
Something that is completely mine,
not even a small part of you.
My writing is what you may never make me change.
You have made me leave so many times,
destroyed who I would’ve become by turning
my life upside down
an endless number of times.
Like bending with my emotional boundaries some kind of game to you.
Just seeing how long it’ll take until I
You’ve built me as a writer.
So leave me one more time,
change everything I know now once more.
So leave me one more time- I know you will no matter what I say.