Maybe I Should Stick to Prose

5 Jan

Alright, here it goes. I’m throwin’ some poetry your way. It’s probably no good. The first one was written in response to a photograph by George S. Zimbel. And the second one I just kinda jotted down recently.

Waiting

She bit her lip
waiting.
She could taste the blood upon her tongue,
which had an unwillingness to cease.

Her sweating palms
caressed the creases of the dress
she had never worn.
Not once.
Until now.

Her shoulders hunched over the bar,
cigarette in hand.
She heard the door groan;
a woman fastened to the arm of a stranger,
faded into the smoldering shadows.
A glimpse of what could have been,
but wasn’t.

The chair sighed beneath her;
the music mumbled in her ear,
swirling around her,
misting her eyes.
The fire burnt her fingers
as it came to its end,
she had forgotten about it.

Something had fallen away,
just out of reach.
It was all she ever wanted.
But she would only be left
waiting.

She heard the door groan;
she turned in her seat,
another stranger.

Slipping

I knew better than to run.
Heart pounding,
breath breaking,
I fell.
I watched the torture seep.

Glass slid through fingers,
escaping, cracking.

I let my mouth rest over the shock,
trying to suck up the blistering blood;
tongue holding the gash.
I played with the flaps of skin,
catching them between my reddening teeth.

The glass sat there motionless,
pieces scattered.

I looked back,
expecting to see something;
the pavement, a rock, a crack.
But that something
was missing.

No one was willing to pick up the shards,
for fear of being slit.

My eyes fell back to the weeping wound.
I felt the warm drop upon my hand.
I suppose when you’re graceless,
you can slip
on nothing.

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