I am a bottle, diagnosed,
A vacancy in glass that you address.
You’ve caught me shining, the
Child of convergence, a consequence,
A meeting.
Such knives of light are not my own
Yet I throw, I throw. Do not poke
Holes in my generosity. I court
The corner of your eyes, I strike
You with your own flesh long neglected.
Do not prod the hungry.
I’ve grown into a jeweled chameleon, a face of
Two starved caves that crave your spoon
Cradling the fat lump of gestures, of cues.
I eat scenery. I eat the atmosphere.
Memory cares not what it swallows.
My panes, pleated and aligned,
Are inestimable. It is your ideals,
Your inflections that heat my sides.
I ooze and dry,
Angular, deliberate.
My lips, my selves curl
In this skin of situations, this
Gown you gave to me. Transparent,
Flaking like dreams.
The lie forks. Do I satisfy?
Do I lack? Pattern rots to prophecy.
You turn your back.
I spring a leak –
Something has cracked.
© 2017 BENJAMIN SMITH
© 2017 BENJAMIN SMITH
Can we ever live up to anyone's expectations?
ReplyDeleteCan we live up to our own's?
Maybe we need to accept what's "good enough"
Maybe sometimes too, we need to find another person who doesn't judge you. Great writing in this.
ReplyDeleteGreat writing indeed.
ReplyDeleteKind regards
Anna :o]
I admire how you set off the single line 3rd stanza - a warning, a promise, a table on which you set the rest of this poetic feast ~
ReplyDeleteThank you so much for taking the time to read my work, and also for the gracious comment! I appreciate your feedback! Xoxo
DeleteI’ve grown into a jeweled chameleon, a face of
ReplyDeleteTwo starved caves that crave your spoon
Cradling the fat lump of gestures, of cues.
I eat scenery. I eat the atmosphere.
Memory cares not what it swallows.
This is soo deeply touching!