I don't know how
not
         to write in terms
of you and I.

How to
be
anything less than
honest.

How to curb doubt,
silence
arising anger-
crippling.

How not
to jot each thought,
compose projection or
      gather guesses.
            I don't know
how to stifle the white
hot urge, the surge,
but
it's been a while, and
I'll admit,
            the colors of
reasoning
bleed now, inquisitive,
and the unblinking
portrait,
cherished so
long,
seems slightly
         smudged and
slanted.

I don't
                know
if
                          I
can do this,
because
            the contract
merges contrast, and
blurting arrangement
of impression pales
with each terse
reminder of the still
life still hanging.
Blurring verses won't
make for unity, no
matter how
           hard I try,
or how high
             I bid.
             And
                  during
my worst moments,
I can see me caving,
         strung out,
         sanity fleeing.
                    Every
single thing
 I've worked so hard
for,
swiftly disappearing.
          It's not
right.
   Have I not
   groveled enough?
Free me from this
predetermined
   execution.
               I am
daring you to face
me,
finally,
for who I really
          am.
Forgive
                for love.
You're stalling,
building
brand new walls.
I know this song
by heart,
       and so
do you.
You know,
too,
I'm fluent in
apology,
but there's
a language of yielding
                       I
could teach you
if you let me.

The Sunday Whirl