internal-inertia:

It always seems we can’t escape.

Forever trapped in the chaotic irony

that is our indulgent circle.

The truth is circumstantial

and good intentions plague the cure.

Its romantic subterfuge, 

nothing more than a kick at the cat

to try and clear our conscious.

I wish I could believe in simplicity,

the simplicity of coffee,

of an innocent friendship restored.

But we are not innocent.

We are not friends.

We are not simple.

i_i 10/5/12

#poetry #poem #spilled ink #creative writing

internal-inertia:

And she is perfect,

in the way she’s flawed.

Her voice I’ve never heard

but her words they haunt me,

in every way I desire.

A beauty so allegro 

she defines my tempo.

Tempered and temperamental,

impulsive and calculating,

she’s so complex that

loving everything she is

well, it’s simply simple.

She’s more than she sees

and that so much more

than any one person

should be,

but she’s all that

and more,

but I’ve ran out of ink.

internal-inertia:

her breath crippled me

teeth upon my skin again

I am never so weak

internal-inertia:

The nails upon my back

remain, and remind.

The sting of the shower

the morning after

after

the night that was.

The water caresses

it rends as if by intent

a similie for torture

and metaphor for love

her hands express

the deepest indulgence