Worn Commitments

Split in multiple planes;

multiple people have my attention;

required, commanded for

worlds of impossible feats.


A weight that pulls my

organs down when I breathe,

everything nestled nicely in hollows;

baskets of worn commitments,

processes, compartments, adjusting,

facing, observing, ignoring, accepting,

surrendering and in-between.


The struggle of breathing life fluid,

with monumental wars to rage alone,

ground to cover,

hearts to find and splits to mend,

ragged seams pulled looser and frayed

with broken nails and obsessive picking

at all the edges you have to smooth over



for all those people who sunk their hooks

into your slender sides.


For all those people you took on,

because being alone

with yourself,

with your own puppet you hate playing

is just a grim, perpetual falling fate.

For all those people who now rely

on reeling in catches and

using you as bait, as lure for all

the killing silence and explosive wounds of

love and feelings and unturned stones of chapters

gone misread.


When it all gets too much,

beyond the distant spot of horizon

at the centre of every image your mind takes,

every shot of colour and every blast of sparks,

all these fucking mind games.

I get to try and hand them on to someone else;

hot parcels of overcooked burdens,

I slide onto your plate this time.


Half of me is still tied up to

this invisible thing-

waiting for someone

to realise something

over you-


“I’m sorry”

is just sorry

without the commitment.


*Artwork unknown*



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