Of pedestals and heights.

It’s funny because
Your words cut like a serrated knife
Or make me wanna –
Nah.
I keep putting myself
Through these cyclical motions
Entertaining that notion
Of reminiscing memories
As if we never went through that strife.

All, lost
But I guess there is something
To hope for
And it’s that things brighten up for you
Despite life throwing its curveballs
Or the most important part,
Monotony ever clear in view.
We live and fall and die
Oftentimes by our own hand
By the passions which lends gratification
Or the familiarity and pedestals
Which we placed ourselves on,
Simply for the other’s view.
It was too high a height
Not to fall from,
Though grace and forgiveness
Was something I felt with you
We hurtled ourselves down anyways
Tried not to injure ourselves more
On remnants littering
The ground.

Some things,
Though we try,
Still hurt because the other
Is isn’t around.
Picking up the black box,
The wings, and propeller
What pieces kept us aloft
We sort through the wreckage
To ascertain what we’ve lost.

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Author: gerbilette

Write, edit, be. Write, love, poetry.

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