All Those Nights

 

All those nights and grey grainy mornings and all the days of long hours and sour air,

all the sitting and sighing and too sad to think of anything not tinged with sulfur,

and trying to ignore something that crawled,

that stung under my skin,

like pulling your finger thru a candle.
All the nights and nights and endless nights,

walking sleepwalker style through a life not given, 

not given freely,

but taken and slapped against a wall of thickest congealing paint,

only the outline speaks to me,

only the outline seems real,

because my edges are always blurred and the contents always shifting,

add some,

lose some,

steal some.

All those days of lost wandering and feelings pinned here and there like butterflies,

like clinging web strings, 

like splatters from hot grease.
All the times, 

all the minutes,

all the Jacob Marley moments, the dragging chains of my life along, 

all that

all of it…

I give up.

I give over.

I release,

and search for a path not scored with straggling footprints ,

not stained like old china mugs

by bitter memories.

I open my cramped hands and breathe,

trusting that my lungs will remember how,

and that the trembling in my bones will still,

and clearness will barricade me from the small biting creatures

tearing at my thoughts,

and a path will open,

a path will open,

a path must open,

after all those nights…

 

©jayetomas2016

 

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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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