The Crime Of Memory by Frank Reardon

It's a face I can't imagine
eating me whole like the
strong laughter of lovers
and their missing heads.

I want to let it go but I
can't it hits me like a
hammer that wishes it
had a house to build.

They've all said I was
nothing, a nobody who
amounts to cheap forms
of trash and despair, I
always tell them I'm
working on it....they just
see the pistol.

I want to be the singing
bird outside the window
I want to be the statuesque
Buddha who prays for scores
of misery but I'm me in a street
crying for desire.

I want to be the angel who gives
halo's to the holocaust and I
want to be the drunk who can
tell the world to go to hell but I'm
trapped in a obsessed need for
sensitivity and In turn I wont see
the universe with stable eyes.

I want to matter in words and
never reason, I want to see the
gutters for more than what I can
be. I want to scream like legions
stuck inside their ears but they never
hear, they always end up hating
me for wishing I was delusional.

I want to throw my arms around
walls that are not there and I want
to converse with him, her and
myself but they only want to tell
me what is wrong and what I need
to do before the old man sees right
through the age of what I am becoming.


Anonymous said...

thank you.

shefeels said...

lovely. i loved this.


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