The Huntsman

These poems I write are for you
but I scrawl them in invisible ink
because to show you
let you read this confession
would be to hand you the keys to the jail cell
and march in there with eyes open and hands raised
already tried and convicted
I look the part
I walk it I talk it
but inside I can’t mean it enough
to make it real
you only stay because I am a challenge
and I can raise one eyebrow and look
so cool
like I haven’t noticed you were in the room
but my heartbeat staggers every time you step into view and
maybe acting careless is costing me a small piece of sanity
it only adds another link to the chain I drag around like Jacob Marley
I know you for the huntsman you are
with a heart kept wrapped in a polished box
the struggle and chase
the scent of the prey are what keep you on the trail
I go through the motions and take my spin at the roulette wheel
but no matter how I try to write a poem with a happy ending
I know all too well that the gifts you give so grandly
will someday need to be paid for.

©jayetomas2014

 

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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