Record Skip
One day I'll stop writing
the same poems, over and over,
the images shaped like fire,
wreckage, lost faith and friends,
and love, I hold onto
these pieces, throwing sharp edges
at a target I can't see
in the hopes one might strike
the heart that still bleeds.
Just one might relay
that this girl inside of me is aching
for who I was, twice shattered,
the pieces I scattered in the process
of growing up.But it all comes down to this,
burning rubber and rain of glass,
crashes I can't avoid.
Beside church pews and choirs
and a desire to believe,
even if it's just in me.For now I am caught
in the same groove, repeated
refrain that clicks back
to the beginning just when it ends.
