Sandpaper Romance (or, a rough kind of love)

Mingling with the muse

Sandpaper Romance (or a Rough Kind of Love)
Sunday, May 25, 2008 2:31 AM
I
When I was love I was so much lighter. Now I feel like a good-hearted holocaust to everything
around me; claiming casualties, almost casually. Self-inflicted victim to the chest. Again. And
again. With no end.
II
Desperation has got me like a second skin, while I've got a double-fisted grip on a life--each
doing our damndest to shake the other off. I'm coming at this from every conceivable
angle--using waits and measures for balance, blueprints, ex marks the spot maps for treasures.
I find I'm just an idea that I had once. Repeatedly.
III
Am I simply some magnetic destruction drawing you down, or a relentless heart spilling forth
forever uphill? I'm hungry for relief or destruction, and holding on to something sacred--crying
out for knowledge, unwilling to settle for a question mark epitaph. To love. To teach, preach,
live up at last to he's got potential. It seems so simple, but I've got getting back up down to a
science.
IV
I used to be in awe of me. Then you. You broke through my circle to inject a fresh perspective,
drawing lines and notations to describe the connection between what I was afraid of and
everything I wanted. Now, at times, I mingle with the remains of a future. We pass around the
promises and laugh at how my liquid tongue let me down. Silly me. But I'm becoming greater,
and one day I'll compete with a touch.
V
I sacrificed the superficial, what little I had left, when you said I was a light getting brighter. I
want to wake up in the dark and find my light in you. P.M. Dawn. I'm dying without truth.
Occurrent tragedies? Every tick of the clock, or how I want to break up the day into XXI parts;
one for each hour I LIVE the implications.
VI
Have you forgotten that in the midst of being stripped you're all I can remember? When my
voice is stolen I panic. How have I hurt you? Can you hear me? You, the other two of our three.
VII
This thing is so sporadic. It's always an issue but I pick it up and put it down faster and faster
until it's falling from me in clips and phrases that need no translation. Falling... I still do it like a
metronome pantomime, just for you. This candle is more the light of a thousand signal
fires. I wish I could face you, embrace you... erase you.
VIII
Hunting isn't the word for what I'm doing. Gathering up pieces, and nails of the nine-inch
kind--devouring eons, not hours, and picking apart my every action for why I'm not worth it. Like
scratching an itch on a limb I've lost, I cannot forget. Forty-four in the front yard, just get
behind me. I've got you.
IX
Why must I feel this? It's a sibilant whisper, saying, "you'll never have it." I'm damned if I do,
forgotten if I don't. But what is this love? Only everything, to me. I will never let it be a lie. Never.
Or become:
X
A good-hearted holocaust to everything around me, or just an idea that I had once. Repeatedly.
XI
I've got to go. They're coming to get me. 3, 6, 9... Let's call it: Eleven.

Author's Note

I would love real feedback, but understand that my style is my own, and I'm not trying to fit any categories or formats

Reviews

[Seriana]

Tobes ~ A style all your own, yes. But is resonates quite readily with the poet and emotional being that I am. Your style and flow is pure and without interruption. Everything is said just so. The way it should be without embellishment or fluff. On the occasion that you use an appropriate adjective, it is simply that. Appropriate and adds just the right amount of support.
Keep writing and sharing. I am looking forward to reading more of you.

[Tobes]

Had a hard time posting this. If another, corrupted version should happen to also exist, understand that this is the correct version.
Thank you all for patience. This is the first posted piece by Tobes....