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 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
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
is just sorry
without the commitment.