Every Fibre Still Creates A Type Of Distance

Unpublished pieces

My life flows on, with regular speed.
I feel the tension yearning.
Some people hate me.
Some people love me.
It is what it is and it is frightening.
To live in hope, of hellish dream,
of growling verbs gestured at me.
It's too much to hear, too little
to know. Not a piece of water
that can truly quench my hurt.
I stay alive, I stay dead.
I stay in the middle of wanting.
And if I want to open my nails,
I'll cut into the faces I need to.
It does not matter to me, which
calculated carpet you put on.
Every fibre still creates a
type of distance. It's been
too long, since I've held you.
But either way, it doesn't matter.
I'll be as I am, as always. Change
will not be in my lesson plan.
You're free to be, the pencil
that please you. Draw any
conclusion that you care to.
My life flows on, in splendid ink,
my pen is ever moving. And if
in time, you link your soul
with mine, I'll merge into
the phone cord that already
trapped me. Let's stay on track,
and be what we are. Let's imagine
our words are important. And
when the grass, needs to be cut,
we'll fly like silver necklaces into
the gold rimmed chalices of
past and future unbroken.

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heatherburns35's picture

this is a great example of

this is a great example of life. It flows on at regular speed. Doesn't it all the time. great poem.
by one of my favorite writers. have a good day.