A Poem (with bonus lack of practical jokes)

　

Untitled

can you imagine a page for each day of your life?

your pen would break, your ink would dry, you'd have to turn to blood

and reams and reams of parchment could never stand the flood

insistent words, consistent lies, persistent loves, and failed tries

an endless battling dance between what should have been

and never was.

(a tiny thought recurrent

a tiny doubt infectant)

can you set on the page every twist of the knife?

the blood that flowed, the tears that fell, the shattering of hearts

the desperate calls for help made by your smallest meanest parts

compliant nerves, reliant tears, defiant words, and common fears

an acrobatic turn atop a trembling wire

of failing thoughts.

(a tiny need expectant

a tiny hope concurrent)

can you recall the page once it's turned on your life?

the dreams so short, the joys so brief, the spaces in between

the vivid moments spotlit by your memory's wildest sheen

resistant minds, assistant hands, existent sighs, and final stands

an over-arching tribute to the consequence

of being seen.