All but breaking.

Heartbreak on top of heartbreak,
and to not even fully know what
a heart breaking really means.

Is it nagging, never-ending, mental suffering, or loss,
like a vital part of your sense of self amputated,
like growing used to a stump,
after knowing the glorious crowned height
of a straight growing tree, or stupidity, ego,
stories and fantasies that get woven haphazard
together when the nights grow unexpected cold.

Did I make up this concept of brokenhearted?
Did I harbor an expectation of hope being repurposed into happiness?
Did I climb to full height on a ladder, because if so, I chose this.
And I am the source of this antagonistic sensation. Falling.
All the pulsating, stomach clamping, nauseating emotions.

Yet the crow caws through the stiff shoulders of thermals.
The littler ones whistle short and simpler.
The goddamned sun has not been shy in over a week.
Summer is slowly breaking open into autumn.
Cooler air has swept back and reclaimed the evenings.
Damp capes of ignorant dew decorate the tired realm of morning.

Paradise is in control. Conquered. All around me.
Yet within it, my delicate heart is straining. All but breaking.
Again. And the word and. Again.
And it hurts.
I don’t fully know what it means, just this feeling.
Which honestly, has me reeling.
Drawing being drawn back up
out of this beautiful, warm,
midseptember scene.

Where I doubt it would change anything,
to know what heartbreak really means.

A friend to talk to over coffee.

What are the fears keeping me up?
Insuring my morning arrives with tears.

Sadness. A small precise weight laid heavily on a heart.
Clenched like a mad fist. I am growing crazy.
Lunacy. A friend to talk to over coffee.

Who convinced me as a child I had a bleeding heart?
It’s not like I wrote this man mad and depressed. Beaten. Beating.
Bleeding me and all close of our furious and unpredictable brokenness.

I want more than all things to help it along.

Work like a well paid servant for my external biological community.
Family. And not just scattered weekends and weak ends, but the kingdom.
The kingdom of twisted roots tainting everything I remember.

That thought. Making me stay up late and wake up early.
Keeping me frail and ceaselessly surly, perched on the verge of tears.
Betrayal. The betrayal brought to me by a friend I once called brother.
And as well as that discourteous bloody reaction,
there is the betrayal I intend to enact on others.