Friend Zone: Center Stage…
Always the same games, with the same types, inner circles were close knit
Only room left was for you and I to sit on the stage with two mics, each night
Losing each other’s close friends to what end, the flicker of far-off brake lights
Traffic jams, maybe gridlock, where EMTs and the Reaper gather up for chit-chats,
to the gravesite dais, new insight, my voice learns to comprehend stage fright
Thoughts racing through my mulish head like lead, each thought hits like,
a buck-twenty behind the wheel speeding, a granite wall, the getaway
car in shadows creeping into the pale of moonlight, cops and robbers stay
on the streets prowling, I wake up, enraged, roll over and hit the bed light
guts gripping, stomach split, the anger compels my head, so I ghostwrite
Waterworks spring forth from my worldly orbs, like the lost side of a gunfight
Colossus sculpted from my own mind, in a place where the narrative self-writes
I find my tales crafted in lead or arm inks of my last rites, these new plights
Are led by inner demons who still fight with religious prophets, it feels like
There’s one less mind left to take flight at the lunch table, so I ape in foresight.
To wake up one night,
The pillows all permeated with sopping breaths and wet exhales of antipathy
I try to typically find the proper words, perhaps the meaningful phrasing
But they sound so clumsy, in laps stuck between praising, and now facing
when our worlds will dwindle into these passing strangers of antiquity
It’s stranger still how amply I loved her, yet I’m still fond of her iniquity
These memories she struggles with, lapsing emotive rushes delivered, a quiver
A hand grasped so tight, how could she not help but to fake cry, a river, a moment
A component of her own sliver or gaping hole between us, I leaned in to kiss her
But that unrequited love held her tight, in the limelight, my chest cavity shivered
As rays of emptiness reigned in, in violent heaves it led to my dethronement
At the bed’s edge I sat, my broken heart in hand, the once proud crown I wore
Torn in two between emotions of rage and sadness, I pondered this wasted time
What love was, the figment rushed to the hospital in that ambulance, of strife, of war
The gravesite dais, my living room, affirming my worth, sobbing on an empty floor
Rivulets of pain suffusing the lone rug neath my feet, outdoors mimic in calamitous clime.
From time to time I walk the meadows within my mind, searching for validation
Picking up the pieces of garbage scattered upon the grassy lea, those tattered dreams
Lost, ones I’ve never seen, how hard is it to lose something that wasn’t mine, it seems
As though this piece of art, its colors, its vibrance, its emotive brushstroke, its creation
Was not meant for my home at all, my canvas remains blank, devoid of sensation.
…and left unsated…
For more works by this author see Paul Neglia on The Creative Exiles.
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