Recycled Storylines & Tacked On Happy Endings

lightingstrike:

Cinderella

I’ve learned to be wary 
of the things you find beautiful.

You once said 
this hour was your favorite 
precisely because it wouldn’t last, 
because it could slip away 
as easily as a heartbeat. Glass strains 
under the weight of sand. Moondrunk, you told me

I was beautiful. There was a phrase
you could never tire of saying—darling, my name, darling;

I call out to you now. Perhaps you can be described
as nothing else but beautiful.

I slip into a resonance. The ticking provides 
a potent distraction for silence—this, at least, is sure.

I would like to ask you to lean close; slowly, listen:
If you make me feel, I may make the mistake 
of showering you with words.

My bones are made of glass.
I loved you in an hour
far away.

I’ve learned to be wary
of the things I find beautiful.

for all that remains of the children,
their eyes,
staring at us,      amazed to see
the extraordinary evil in
ordinary men.

—Lucille Clifton, Sorrow Song

(Source: proustitute, via aldrichintherye)

It’s true, what they say. How writers only write what they know and writers only write what they feel. You are a poem. Open-ended. Unfinished. Make of it what you will. I try to write you like a story - with a beginning, middle, end. A narrative.

Here. This is what happened. This is what will happen next. This is how that makes me feel.

I have tried countless times to write something more of you - to turn you into endless paragraphs or into something, anything that is a little more than just a couple of stanzas. Every single time, I’ve scrapped it in place of a poem.

Here. This is how I feel. I do not understand it. Neither will you.

(The secret to reading poems is you read between the lines.)

That is as far as we will ever get. 

I know I’ve said this before but, well, you make me wish so bad for things I just know I can never have.

(Source: laralouisetriestobeartistic)