Bag of bones

I don’t get to write poetry enough. It’s a side of myself that evokes feelings I never considered.

From time to time, I will share a little piece that I’ve worked on or in the works of finishing.

I’m no Edgar Allen Poe, but I think this is a great outlet. You should try it.

Don’t get caught up in the technicalities of which types of poem. Whether its follows the iambic pentameter or if its a ballad.

All you need to do is write and be expressive.

The inner me
Hates he.
I mean him
or any version.
The inner me hums,
pulsates,
whenever he is questioned,
threatened or wounded.
He pieces together.
What’s left of himself?
He sheds what he doesn’t need,
never thinking
about his former self again.
No lessons taught,
No good will bought,
No love lost.

He drags
what’s left of himself.
Bag of bones.
Hollow,
Yet hard as steel
Please find the nearest steel mill.
He needs a break.
Toss the bag.
No one will notice
Someone else will tend to the waste.
Empty arms,
he feels
the heaviness with nothing there
the void,
that in between feeling
of togetherness.
But his arms are so tired,
pulling his body and soul
into one entity.
Instead walking aimlessly,
dragging those bones.
The fiber of his being.
Soul barely intact.
Confused about what stability is.
These aren’t his bones.
Days’ travel to give his brother
A leg up.

Pennies count,

The Dollar Dad

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