A thin silver string.
Keeping our lives,
tied to one another.
Is slowly beginning to break.

It has become worn out.
Untangling around us.
We realize it is not long enough to keep us together
While we are so apart.

Predictable.
The moment we parted ways.
It was all over.
We knew
there would be a time
When we would reach the breaking point.

Each and everyone of us.
Pulling it in so many directions.
It is thin
It is weak.
It will...

SNAP

What is broken stays broken
There is
No duct tape that can fix it.
No new string to replace it.
No nothing to keep us tied anymore.

If only our relationship wasn’t as fragile as a thin string.
We could have avoided this poem.

Too far yet too close.
I see you standing here next to me,
but my heart wasn't able to reach you.

The gap that keeps us apart,
the invisible walls in between us
Feeds the agony of longing.

But it'll never be enough
for my heart to give up,
though the pain is intolerable.

I will keep reaching,
'coz I know it is worth risking.
Than to surrender my love.

My love that gives more than enough
To survive this fate of love

So unwilling
to make a decision
on and on
it's neverending
I'm always waiting
so many others
one after another
always comparing

Clearly I'm not enough
or you'd be certain
I know it's not me
just make your decision

Broke, sitting with half plate
Pasta, butter, spice
Shuffle through my old clothes
I used to look nice

What is nice, but smaller?
Smaller, smaller, still
String bean and potatoes
Go fine together

The grocer tries to tell me,
"Divide, conquer, divide."
"What is nice, but smaller?"

I guess the grocer's right

I’m a puppeteer, I pull the strings.
Once I catch you, you are forever my doll.
You can hide it, you can even fight it, but I’ll always be able to make you do things.
You will always follow my protocol.

You may think you have a choice.
You may think you have free will.
But you will follow every word of my passive voice.
And I’ll use you to get my thrill.

If you ever leave, I’ll leave a string hanging so I can tug on it when you’re gone.
You may think that you’re safe.
But in the end you’re just my little pawn.
The path Is set for you and you cannot strafe.

For I am a puppeteer and I must confess.
I am the best at this game I call chess.

There's this wire I keep tripping on
the string that lays parallel to current divisions of reality
a plane of moments
strategizing time fragments that correlate with the general population
but keeps me cloaked behind a veil of
they call it
dissociated
the illusion that I cannot fully connect
my atoms don't seem to just align properly with the whirling visions around me
and I slip into the seconds of grandiose prophecies
consumed with the mentality that I will never be enough
that my moments will never really
quite line up.

A string plucked:
Soft, supple, pliant, auriferous,
Full-bodied.
Vibrations traveling in determined waves
Fill the chambers
Joyfully cascading down walls,
Ringing down halls,
The symphony crescendos and falls.
A string brushed:
Gasps, sings, tender, melodious,
Wanton.
Whispers traveling in hopeful skips
Dance on air
Lasciviously over-pleased
To be teased
And so subtly eased.
The string un-plucked:
Grows cold
Anticipates
Grows rusty
Wants for just one touch
Grows restless
Sits in silence
Oppressive silence
Until it snaps.