Written by J.M. Chadwick – Instagram: @jchadw1ck

Same slanted room, new (still familiar) histrionics.
Dark circles like cracked tar,
inhabit the empty barrel of reflected, brown, pebble eyes.
Is it strange to say—to think, even—
that I don’t mind their appearance anymore?

What is contentment 
without intolerability?
And what is the light that must burnout, or burst,
in order for discomfort 
to not be a consequence of growing up?

I’ll ask the wind, once again,
At what time is inconsistency in psyche
not brushed off as young melodramatics?
And is mending my own imbalance
a case charitable enough for my time?

I have never been able to shelve a theory
until every facet is arranged.
At this juncture, I’ve got my whole life in my head.
Filing away my next movements
and predicting the heartbreaks.

Suddenly, the cell-tower fields
hold my heart in a little box.
I’m hugging the broken blinds 
and watering the run-down roads.
I stare at the moon alone now.

I suppose, the green street signs
must fade from my memory one day.
And the vast blueness of the parking lot sky,
and myself, will teleport to a frame.
This really is the end of it.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s