I felt it, that ivory stake through my chest.
A feeling you wouldn't soon put to rest.
My eyes laid on you and they shivered.
Even my hands, they quivered.
I felt it as you passed me by, this fluttering feeling of butterflies.
A soothing ache which I couldn't stay.
A marooned fake of which I had so little to play.
These throbs, these sensations.
Like a job, rife with deliberation.
A stressful jolt of painful revolt against the sorrowful tone I'd felt atoned for my past.
And when you looked to me at last, your eyes shined brighter than Belfast.
While I stepped through those Oleander scented streets, a feeling of fleeting relief ran through these sheets.
As not once I had felt this before, not once had I lost my feet.
A bittersweet cleat slammed into my chest, a crushing feeling of rest.
And I still stare at you, with a pipe dream in my head.
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from Casey Castro and writers in Poets and other communities.
Dutiful Vapor
I remember a time back when I was but a young sprout breaking from cold hard soil in New York. It was like a tundra out there, dry and boring, the grey sky congealing in my eyes like blood in an open wound. I hated to stare up and see nothing of note but the thin and tired rays of sunlight peaking through just then breaking clouds. However, in all of that ire against the weather of my home, I'd always have at least one thing to look forward to. Every once in a while, my days would be blessed with frigid bullets from ever so saddening clouds. They'd hit my skin and I'd smile, they'd hit my friends and I'd laugh. When they turned the ugly dull concrete beneath my feet to a pepper-like mosaic of trips and falls, it made my day shine brighter than any clear summer sky. I was at peace, the rain hitting my face was peace. All of this was only perpetuated by visiting a beach and the rain landing against the sand. I loved that no place was safe from the whirlwind of calming noise. My hatred subdued for a time while I enjoyed that feeling beneath the crying sky. This, this is my motivation. I want to keep the sky alive, to keep the ground beneath me churning, and to see to it that humanity believes in this magnificent portrait we call Earth. To cut down on my littering, my waste of perfectly good recyclables. To save this planet. Its the least I owe to beauty abound. So, I plan to reduce my contribution to landfills through consistent maintaining of a recycling schedule. I plan to calm my littering and clear up the oceans when I can, if I can. I will donate to causes that fit my ideals after doing ample research on their true contribution to the cause. I just hope to see my peppered sidewalks again, with no fear that it'll end.
By Casey Castro5 years ago in Poets
The First Hairline Cracks
The first cracks never look like cracks. They don’t arrive with drama or warning. They don’t announce themselves as danger. They hide inside the very things that feel like power — speed, clarity, momentum, capability. That’s why they’re so easy to miss. That’s why they’re so dangerous.
By Elisa Wontorcik2 days ago in Poets
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.