Ryan Hardgrove- Three Poems

Love isn’t sure

looking at her

from across a couple thousand different rooms

I’ve changed my mind

a couple thousand different times

do we belong together

do any two specific people

belong together

to think or answer yes

is to assume omniscience

but we always end up together

after it bounces around upstairs

with all those clanking closet skeletons

maybe together is no better than separate

maybe I stop debating

while I’m coddling the idea of together

the illusion of control

we always let it ride

love isn’t being sure

love isn’t confident

it’s not solid

LOVE is porous

and complex

and unique

to each beholder

love isn’t being sure

it’s having doubts

it is FEAR

of losing

it is hurting someone

while trying

to save them

Real problems don’t get solved

holed up in the basement again

hunched over the blue glow

punching at the typer

dumping the old soul

without getting too wrapped up

its only words on a page

after all

although

a tiny firebomb of hysteria

is released each time

I follow the rhythm of

the thought

letting the thought

grow without thinking

stepping aside

so the words can take

chances

on their own

I can’t help but get holy

strapped down

in my cinder block temple

the furnace blazing

like a god damn 747

shaking my bones

in their skin

If it didn’t come out

then I wouldn’t put it down

I wouldn’t make up shit

fantasy worlds

built with fantasy characters

and their single pronged

black and white fantasy flaws

universal and relatable problems

with obvious and designed solutions

fantasy feelings

for fantasy believers

no

these words are mine

and these problems

are mine

void of motive

this is no manifesto

not even a poem

just  scattered thoughts

from another day

secretly spent

too close to the edge

Too holy, these rants

that feeling

you can wrap your brain around

when the fog lifts

and it can be seen

naked and true

unencumbered by less savory notions

it is a pureness

some get it when they play the piano

some find it out in the wild wilderness

growing out there still

despite everything

some feel it through others

and some articulate the pureness

through some medium

I am able to find it

while writing

it is my prayer

my canvas

hammering emotion and observation

into words

somehow

and it can never be

for anyone but me

or it will curl up and die

a dried up fruit rind

left for the worms

fighting the good fight

is easy though

it’s the in between

when there is no fight

the standing or sitting or sleeping

or trying to sleep

the pain lives there

and the pureness

bleeds out

into the stillness

that real emotion

when the soul

is tangible

if only for a moment

before becoming enshrouded again

by the inevitabilities

and complexities of the

absurd

human consciousness