i found within myself the crevices and reality
feeding swollen veins with unrequited heartache,
embracing the comfort held beneath the dull photographs [i call home]
ticking hands pounded violently between my saddened ears
branding each page of recollection with staggered syllables
tugging and prodding at the deception masked within your name
the memories became tangible and frail, i stood at a distance
visiting every instance of unpromise’s rapturous kiss
and watched as his hands united the black velvet bow
the crevices swallowed the loss of heartache’s scars
and plucked the crumbs of a poisoned lover’s foolish mess
but,
i cannot bask beneath the rays of instances and photographs
for shadows mask the quiet wings of crevices and letting go
instead, i nestle in the arms of loneliness
finding forever in a day
“Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer’s loneliness, but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day.” -Ernest Hemingway
Heroin Diaries 