If only it was as easy as
written poetry.
If only I could actually
pour my emotions and
pain
and heart
into my hands
let it bleed and soak
the grass at my feet
let it feed the roots
of these trees that
grow in the garden of my mind.

and then throw it to the wolves.
let them rip it apart
with no remains of
what it use to mean.
let the soil carry the
licked clean bones of
a carcass I now hopefully
never see in the mirror.

but instead I simply let my body ache.
and let my bones tremble with the evidence
of the things I tell myself I do not need.
© OAS