M.K. Lee's Blog: Telling Tales, page 112

Version

I’d like to say you tether me to safety,
You anchor me to peace during a storm,
You play lighthouse when I’m off on adventure,
And when a gale is blowing you are warm.
But that’s a version of you I’ve invented,
Reflecting only parts of you I like.
Reality reveals you as a burden:
You have impaled me like a rusted spike.

 

Slumber

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The door was left open only a crack.

Barely wide enough to notice, but just enough to let a finger width in.

On softened hinges the door creaked open, closed with a soft click, blocking out the sudden strip of light as it returned to its frame.

The sleeping figure in the bed remained unaware, prone. Unable to feel the intense gaze on its face.

Pad. Pad. Pad. Bare footfalls on piled carpet creeped up to the side of the bed.

A clammy hand reached out to tug on a sleeping forearm.

A swaying mot...

Vain

We all seek reassurance passing reflecting surface.

We all check our carefully positioned shields are intact.

But you. You’re like Cassiopeia with the Magic Mirror,

And no other vision can detract.

On Metro you check mask and mane immaculate.

Pass façade glimpsing perfection in every curve.

Who made you feel the need for such self inspection?

Who made you play this part of preen and preserve?

We all have the need for some introspection.

We all have things for which we feel some shame.

But ple...

Wood

You are the splinter in my mind.
You fragment, like old, decaying wood,
Yet pierce like freshly severed branch,
So that you’re everywhere in me:
Thoughts. Deeds. Words. All the fragile parts

For the rest of the poem see here!

Tomorrow

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When did tomorrow become too late?

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll tell him. Tomorrow I’ll find the words to sum up all the chaos that’s been turning paces round the inside of my skull for a lifetime.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow I’ll stop making excuses, find courage that I tell myself I have for every other occasion when for this, courage seems like an impossible task.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll call, tomorrow I’ll say something, tomorrow I’ll be the person I could be, were I only to open my mouth.

Tomorrow. H...

Dance

Don’t tell me that you can’t dance.
You’ve been pirouetting around me from the very moment that we met.
Practically Billy Elliott, outpacing me with intricate step,
Sashaying to a rhythm that’s played only in you head,
Taking me out to salsa but then Tangoing instead.
You think yourself so clever with your graceful merengue.
I’ll make your world a moshpit, my own personal ballet.
Then we’ll see how you dance…

 

My Vampire

Unlike the modern day nosferatu,
You are no sickly sweet, glittering teen.
You aren’t a chiseled masterpiece,
Though not much of you I’ve seen.
You don’t have superhuman strength,
And time’s not on your side,
You’ve no aversion to the sun,
In no coffin do you reside.
You have no raging thirst for blood,
My mind you cannot read,
In fact there’s not one part of me
That I can think you need.
But still, you drain my life from me,
You’re like my fucking sun.
I wilt without you near me,
And your ga...

Nothing More

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It’s the wind. It’s the extractor fan rattling, a stiff breeze coming in through the closed front door. The cold whisper over your shoulders nothing more than a blast of cold air.

It’s the building. It’s the neighbours shuffling furniture, the brickwork expanding in the sun’s heat, poor workmanship that’s led to uneven, creaky floors. The knock to the desk beside you nothing more than its wood settling.

It’s you. Your overactive imagination sees shadows when there are none. Your irrational t...

This Is How It Is

It’s like this.
Pen in hand, he feels as though he is both behind medieval shield, and laid bare for all to witness.
Peering out from a solid, heavy, sharp-edged fortress
Whilst repeatedly adjusting, as best to hide his pale nakedness –
This image no doubt causing both author and viewer distress.
But, it fits.
The words do what they will to escape the oddness.
Sometimes in a hurry, a jumbled, stumbling mess,
Others escaping with things worthy of confess,
Whilst others still, amble. Meander. D...

Flailing

You found me flailing on the bathroom floor.
A juddering heap of heaving, weeping, bleeding.
I asked, what’s there worth holding on here for?
What’s the purpose of this life that I’m keeping,
Breathing existence into, an ember of a flame
That’s so desperate and ready to be snuffed out?
And you stood, stoic, with a whisper you spoke my name,
Made it sound a truth in which you couldn’t doubt.
And so I stayed.
Please, don’t make me regret my decision that day.