Reflecting on My Metaphor

i am a typewriter and someone else is pressing the keys

i am a match that won’t light

i am yarn, frayed and unraveling

i am glue that never dries

i am words written backwards

i am a stone that can’t skip

i am lukewarm coffee

i am a pen out of ink

i am an empty spool of thread

i am a threadbare sweater

i am a left sock without a right

i am a flower, always wilting

i am written in an unspoken language

i am all consonants and no vowels

i am a broken vase, not yet mended with gold

i am a butterfly with broken wings

i am an owl without voice

i am loaded scales with no counter weights

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Blind Following Blind Off a Cliff

You don’t sing in church anymore,
that makes me a little sad.
And I wish you could hear me sing
in the kitchen at midnight
when you’re not home.
You say a soft, “Hi,”
and I wonder why
your arms haven’t been around
me
more often.
My rib cage and soft belly
ache for your arms.
Your alarm goes off,
your alarm goes off,
your alarm goes off,
and I just wanna let you sleep.
The world can wait for you,
they won’t move on without you,
maybe the universe
stands still when you’re not there.
And maybe we all hold our breath
until you come back around.
The center,
something to revolve around,
but it shouldn’t be like that.
Where you lead
I might follow,
even into danger
and heartache.
Snap back to reality
knock you down a peg or two,
to keep myself alive
and safely down from the ledge.

voice (themes)

what is different about my story? what does my voice sound like? what are the recurring elements in my story? how are these things my own?

 

fire
butterflies
owls
tattoos
R
J and T
cars
depression
writing
poetry
God
love
moving forward
feeling alive
favorite songs
places i’ve been
books
buses and bus stops
colors
experiences
scars
intimacy
fear
anxiety
people
communication

 

they do not manifest the same in another’s life as they do in mine. no one feels the same as i do. my experiences are uniquely my own. even if you were there, it was not the same for you as it was for me. maybe your heart broke, but your heart is not mine, so how could they ever have broken in the same fashion? your eyes may have seen it all, but they are not my eyes, so they have not seen what i have seen. your fingers have traced skin, but they don’t feel the way mine do. the books i’ve read sit on your shelf, but i did not read those that your fingers thumbed thru. your lips have kissed, but we’ve never known the same kiss, the same moment. you have caused pain, but it was not mine to feel. i have written words that weren’t yours to read, but i gave them away. i no longer notice some whose voices aren’t important to me, yet others i read their every word and wish i knew what to say. so, i’ll sit here and try to find my voice.