It’s easy enough to say: what’s the point?
when I feel nothing in the interim

Between ecstasy and success, when I have ceased to exist outside of perfunctory actions, moving only to stay alive – but when I stop, and I do stop – I die. I sit mindlessly playing with hearts and wasting my own time. Not that it matters.

I don’t care about you beyond what you can do for me

My love:

Doubtless when we break, either through your sickness or through mine, you will find another love. She will be kind where I was harsh and soft where I am rough; and where I whipped you, she’ll nurse you back to health. It’ll hurt me and it’ll ruin my heart, but it’s true – she will get you up and running out of love.

Or I could always make myself softer

Stop asking what’s next, who else there is, where I can climb – just be, just be, who can we be –

I want nothing more than to stop carrying this
I want nothing more than to be a person

If you offered me success / or that / I know still what I would say
and, well, you know too
and that’s what tends to scare you

Look after yourself when I burn this house down
when I drown my heart just for anything
when I wear out all the clichés
and she – nameless, nice, soft, sweet
can pick you up, can cure the sickness
that I instilled inside you



Filed under Poetry, Writing

5 responses to “99.

  1. The numbered pieces – a series of heartbreaks? I remember you, and how I loved your writing. I was lilies. Now I’m water flame.

  2. Pingback: Curated Poetry: Ward Clever Ponders Elegance – Ward Clever

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