. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Monday, January 23, 2012

I That Cut You

Working through the heavy emotions of heartbreak, who's to blame and who isn't, who caused the damage and who didn't; for all the thinking and internal reflection and conversation, when love shatters it's almost impossible to trace the true and honest steps that led to the explosion. In the moment when I wrote this poem, I suppose I was pointing the finger at myself...

I never meant to be the dagger that stabbed you through,
I became the ignorant blade that did not know the sting of its own edge,
the reflection on my polished cutting surface was a mirror,
a window that everyone could see into but me,
I stabbed you,
you loved me,
I stabbed you more,
you loved me,
-all the while trying to go on with a severed heart-
I stabbed you still,
and love was not enough to keep our life from bleeding through your wounds.

It was the blood that pooled around your fallen spirit
that made me finally see the damage I had caused.

But then what can the knife do?


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