What was I going to say?
The door was closed.
I wanted to knock but,
I was afraid.
What was I going to write?
The blank note and pen
shaking in my hands.
Space under the door was just enough.
Why did I have to wake up?
Such a dream told me so much,
and so little.
I want to go back to sleep.
You seemed to know how I felt.
In reality, I don’t think you do.
They say the closer you are to light,
The longer shadow you cast.
In my pilgrimage, the saying is correct.
Each step towards the light, I’d fall.
Past remains the past, nothing can change.
I must live with the consequences.
The light stays in sight, hoping for salvation,
from the terrors of the world.
Regret is a word that floods the air.
The light shines through the darkness of each letter.
Waking up in such a nightmare,
Following the light is all I can do.
The words lit up the pages in my hands.
It was a heart and soul in writing.
Such emotion had been absent from me for some time.
My heart moved as my eyes absorbed each word.
The words I had read were quite a surprise.
I didn’t expect anything of the sort.
I reread each line to get the feelings over and over.
My heart ached as I thought of reality, and of life.
The future still stood unmoved by the letter,
neither my actions or the words could decide for me.
Feelings I have and had change over time, it seems.
My heart beats are all I hear in the night as the words run through my mind.
What do I do now?
Where do I go?
The letter seemed to change me, just like it always does.
How the heart retains such emotion
to feel things even after such a time…
Even an attempt at getting over
the huge barrier of feelings is such a task…
Something always there to remind me
the way I feel about you…
At what cost would it take
to turn back time and start again?
Such a fantasy, the thoughts
of getting a do-over…
But is it?
And just like that I caved.
I couldn’t help it.
Every day the thoughts build up uncontrollably.
How can I resist what I’ve had such strong feelings for?
And just like that, I’m saddened.
Because I messed up.
I live with that every day.
Can I simply change who I am to be with who I want?
And there sat a box of masks.
I want to be real.
Every single day I wish to be me.
Can I not be happy how I am?
Staring endlessly at the white pages before me,
I am constantly reminded of you.
You were my muse,
probably more so than anyone.
In my new way of thinking,
it’s quite hard to hate you.
I brought it upon myself,
yet it was so easy in the past.
As the block consumes my mind,
I wish for your happiness.
For both our sake,
don’t give in to the evils of the world.
For I know a new muse is out there,
broken and shattered, just like me.
I’ve made a mistake.
I kept tabs on her like I keep a bookmark in a book.
Like coming back to a book, and suddenly the story is completely different.
After our last conversation, it was sure nothing would change
the dreadful outcome of our lives.
The idea of you being happy was all I needed.
But you couldn’t just be happy without me.
You let go of the light and fell right into the darkness of your past.
A rebellion against me, I’m sure.
Like you strike your lighters and matches to drugs,
so will I, to everything we once shared.
A box is nothing more than a box if left unopened.
Even more so when it is reduced to ash.
The few words that have broken my past,
disrupting my future.
As a writer, I should expect how powerful words can be.
They are like daggers to the eyes,
as read through text.
It’s funny how I never learn.
Words are tools of demise in my wake,
always coming up hauntingly.
Has it been written this is the way it will go?
Complications arise and settle.
Chaos ensues as it sees the peace.
Working for a greater goal, when other goals could be met.
Chaos makes the goals into hard choices.
To be at peace with hard choices is to lie to oneself.
Chaos lurking over you just waiting for you to relax.
What good is love when you must suffer through so much?
Chaos is the one always there to put you down.
Just breathing the fresh air of a new life.
Chaos will surely be there soon.
Distance is both a cushion and a burden.
Chaos makes you its throne.
Deep within I know my questions will be my bane.
Inside I know that it is not of feign.
I have my answers, of that I am sure.
The path I take is the cure.
My questions answered with sound from her lips,
and my heart clinging to the words before it slips.
Painting of the souls is what occurs in time,
when the hearts of ones who should be together, her’s and mine.
When ink and paint drip together,
my heart feels connected in a tether.
Questions still linger, but I hold hope.
They will weigh me down, with only her hand holding up this slope.
Brandan Chapman 