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Achilles Heel

dictator-of-diction

I succumb to the allusion of my volunteered confusion

Friend or lover?

Guilty of loving her

Hung on a cross

A fine line to cross

It will always be her loss

It will always be my loss

Like a rolling stone that will not collect moss

Unburdened by the ways of the heart

Free to dismiss

Free from the pleasure of a kiss

From the outside in how couldn’t she resist?

Painfully obvious

Sinfully simple

A boy who refuses to comprehend

Capable, yet seeing it to the end

Willingly suffering

Sufferingly willing

A dull drill that keeps drilling

Shattering hope

The numbing effect of dope

Persistent in the face of resistance

Romantic despite idealism

Where is the origin of such a curse?

Haunted by the image of a man on the cross– never appearing in church

Only in plain sight does he erode

A heart exponentially beating till it explodes

A love like music without notes

Harmony in the midst of chaos

A symphony of exhausted repetition

Only to be slowed by a petition

From the world because it’s seen enough

Sick of the senility

No longer amused by the evasion of reality

Face the facts

He never could

Or maybe just never would

Like hammering a nail to wood

Until he is out of breath

Perhaps then the conclusion of the quarrelsome organ in his chest

From the beginning it was never like the rest

It needed to be heard

Ignored the telltale signs of even bold words

A lifetime infected by the snooze button

Never asleep, never awake, always one breath from losing something

Holding onto too much

Lacking a reflection to witness such blush

Born with too much blood to gush

How is that all he sought and lacked was her touch?

Desperately committed

For far less things men have been committed

Beyond an Achilles heel that needs to be admitted

If this isn’t proof then there is none

Starring down the barrel of a gun

Love or loss

A fine line to cross

A rolling stone without moss

A tear without moisture

Heart, without a beat

Only when stars aligned could be blessed to meet

Yet here I am

Time and time again

It is fact; my romantic madness has no end

A painful inability to comprehend godsend

Because without experience there is only delirious

Certainly a man should be weary of this

But I am that man

And he is me

Come tomorrow I know not where he will be

Yet I am willing and waiting to see

Like an inmate behind bars with the option to be free.

 This Is A Good Sign Facebook

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