Harsh Reality

954690_497141930382367_692418807_n adolfo apolloni

I fought my way across miles and obstacles
worn to a nail paring thinness
so that I could throw myself at your feet
you paused only for a stuttering of moments then stepped across me
your footsteps booming in your haste to distance yourself
I stayed still and crumpled
and gulping I reached for tears that I expected would also reach for me
but my eyes burned dry
the wounding went too deep for weeping
as the scenario I had painstakingly constructed and shielded
exploded like a too hot light bulb
and reality pounced and
finally captured me
shook me harshly and knocked the dark glasses off my eyes
squinting at the piercing light
I slowly got to my feet and began the long walk back

*artwork by adolfo apolloni*


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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