A little poem I wrote for him.
I can’t help the things
My heart does
The beats it skips or
The color it summons
To my face.
I can’t help the things
My heart feels
Like a searing, twisting knife or
The pain of pieces shattered like brittle glass
Crushed by a ton of falling rocks.
The gloomy agony of impending doom,
A clock; ticking
Above my head, reminding me
Of the short time I’ve had
And the small amount I may have left.
What is it you feel towards me?
I fear always the worst.
Hate? Annoyance?
Anger or shrinking patience?
Distaste, disgust?
Or is it something else
Entirely, like
Sorrow, regret,
Pain of might-have-beens
And chances lost?
Dare I hope that
You feel that way, the way
That I do? Do you feel
Love?
Hope that those
Might-have-beens will one day be,
As more than dreams or
Idle fantasies that
My stricken and ill
Heart has woven?
I can’t help the things
For which my heart longs.
Your voice, your smile, your
Face and presence near me;
Or the catching of but a glimpse of you.
I can’t help the things
My heart, no, soul wants
Your laugh, your soft, almost hesitant touch,
The knowledge I had of simply
You being near.
Just you.
I can’t help the things
My heart needs.
When you are gone I feel
It, a void in my chest,
Here where a heart
Should beat. Fragments
Remain, held together
By the unending love
Of my close and dear
Friends, who are tirelessly
Working to hold my shards
In their hands, careful
And diligent to let no pieces
Slip
Through their fingers and be lost.
But that is all they can do
For the only one who
Can securely fix my heart,
Stitching it all together
Is you.
But how can I expect you to want it?
To have this told
By some stupid girl who can’t offer much;
Who deserves so much worse than you;
Who’s not much to look at;
Who is redundant and
Annoying; who struggles for months unending to
Speak what is pressing on her heart and must be said;
And who can’t even write it
In decent verse
With rhyme or meter, but must
Instead write it down
Raw and ugly, as it comes out of her heart
And flows through the
Pencil to page and settles
In primitive ways,
Unbecoming and
Vulgar
To speak to one she cares about
As strongly and deeply as I do you.
But I can’t help the things
My heart says
And lately, all it says, every word,
It’s all been
About
You.
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Please, call me Rabid. ;D All my friends do.
I apologize for any unwanted spoilers in my signature... v.v
I apologize for any unwanted spoilers in my signature... v.v
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