If I could say the things on my mind
without the fear of being judged
in ways I can’t promise to myself
confusing depths that never sway
only grow more distant like food
for those hungered out of reach,
further away, though close in proximity
nothing to be done, nothing can be done
why should it be done?

It’s a pattern, a mirage, same old cycles
one more to break, better break it soon,
you have here someone bleeding for you,
doing most of the things you wanted him to,
except what that one stirred for you
It wasn’t fair for him to,
but you danced right along,
didn’t push pause when he played the song,
felt the heat,
didn’t put sunblock on,
and when you tried,
it was a meager SPF 5
unexpected, made you feel alive
grass wouldn’t be greener on the other side

in any capacity

serendipitous timing
right or wrong
necessary metamorphoses
now almost done.

Emily C. Poésie © 2016

Photo: Pixabay