Break my every being into semantics.

All in all, after all, we are components of language and motion.

The mind is the driver, the heart is the fuel,

and with one last glance, I spill out my reserves.

Red and green intermingled in between the interior designs of my head,

wall-to-wall in blacks and whites, defined by absolutes:

The summary of existence when painted through the eyes of conflict.

My departure is a shattered window and concrete floor.

I arrived too late to catch the fire escape,

so I’m twisting my arms and breaking my legs to climb through cracks.

It’s a glorified stumble and crawl, regression towards the mean.

I am destined to be the average of no statistical significance.

The shoes I wear haven’t belonged to me in weeks;

I donated my possessions to the ghost that lingers the halls,

passing along the walkways, adrift in the cigarette smoke,

as passable and forgettable as the wind that exits the lungs.

There’s nothing left but the company of shadows swarming in the corners of consciousness.

They feast on the lanterns and can’t choke on the flame; they’re devoted to demise:

Parasitic beasts all bearing the faces that disappeared from my life,

wearing the memories, taunting the weakness that punctures like needles and festers for hours.

And here they do stay until miles away I’m rushing to shake hands with asphalt and dust.

Hundreds of words wasted in the tones of love and loss.

Passages passed through a tunnel-vision perspective.

Reflections in blameless glass deprived of confidence, the graveyard of countless nights

where the lingering excuse, “This will get better, this too shall pass,”

became as empty and hollow as the red and green outside in the street.

This can’t get better, this too shall remain,

unless I find a way to move beyond my pain.

My feeling for what will be kept behind grows stronger every moment.

So much I will miss and still more I know I need to leave

before I can hope to grow and get over these natural aches and pains.

I got an autograph from a razor blade,

concealed before the window shade,

two scars across a broken frame

to mark my insecurities.

A bandage on a naked wrist

peels at the seams—I can’t resist

when forward is a foreign concept

and grayness is my destiny.

The footprints we all leave behind

will testify to what we find:

That what we love cannot sustain

when what we love brings forth the rain.

I tried for years to deny

the one solution is goodbye.

I put on a smile—it fell apart.

I wish I thought of better days.

I wish I thought of better days.

I wish I thought of better days.

I wish I thought of better days.

I wish I thought of better days.

By Mitchell Worden

From: United States

Website: https://marskidpoems.com/

Instagram: mdwoah

Twitter: MitchellWorden

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