Fraying the Famished

i wonder sometimes
how many blows
a person can take,
how much heartbreak,
how many tears
before the gutters
create lines in our cheeks,
from the times we weep
into our sheets.

i wonder sometimes
how cold can one go,
how unattended
from the pretending,
how unaffected by
the aftermath,
brushing hands with
love touches
before they take flight
leaving us in the trenches.

i wonder sometimes
if crying to death is
possible, dehydration
from the complications
where no one attends
the healing process
left alone to deal with
images solitary so often
foreboding, waking midnight
frightened by dreams,
grab the pillows
to muffle the screams.

i wonder sometimes
if karma exists,
if there's consequences
for this, for actions
for absence, for
irresponsibility
for wounding the
damaged leaving them
ravaged by decisions,
fractioned pieces,
we kneel in puddles
to pick up the remains.

i wonder sometimes
what it's like to be held,
to be kept and felt,
to be adored, protected
opposite ends
of the spectrum
where the rejected
find safe arms, where
charm is authentic,
where words are truth,
where you live
in the realness of you.

i wonder sometimes
what it's like to have an army,
standing behind me
rooting for victory
instead of hands constantly
reaching to pick at me,
to pull pieces for themselves,
like i'm a taste of wine
that can be gulped
and left behind for
the next one to sip,
dip their finger in my pain,
sing a sweet refrain
from a distance
while I sit listless,
as the quicksand
seeps through my feet.

Time forgets the famished,
dying by someone else's hand,
momentary sections of fame,
until it's someone else's turn,
to walk into the spotlight,
while a girl dies
with no one watching,
while smile lines turn gray,
when the laughter
leaves her face,
she manages on tight ropes,
she grasps strands of hope,
floundering alone
they think her strong,
but they're wrong.

she's fragile like flowers,
evaporates like rain,
her giggles paint a mask,
hiding the ever present pain.
she's become accustomed
to adjusting her chains,
she's dragging wooden crosses,
into the misted plains,
where gravestones
represent release,
where sleeping becomes
the only way to
get the images to ease. 

~vennie~

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