The Crooked Thing - A Poem

Title is from "Brown Penny" by W.B. Yeats (favorite poem go read it).

Also, this poem is trash and rhyming is hard.

EVERYTHING HAPPENS SO MUCH

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The Crooked Thing

There is no pressure in my chest

Or lively chorus from therein

No thoughts of another will plague my rest

No feeling of fire on my skin

My heart will not go dancing, no

Nothing quite enough to catch my gaze

I don't know much, but of what I do know

It is a silly, foolish, self-induced haze

Nothing last for everything

Adolescent feelings not exempt

So tell me then, would you, why

Would I let my heart strings get so unkempt?

And if I read tall tales of love

And shining knights saving the day

And archetypes dying for thereof

If you saw, what would you say?

I was not lying, do not accuse

I do not know that feeling

And after it has simply become a bruise

My heart will not go beating

I can smile as the stories of others

But I do not wish for one of my own

For my favorite stories are of sisters, brothers

Friendship, not love, written in stone

You yearn someone else, you let them in

And I watch as you lower down your walls

And perhaps my silence was the greatest sin

As once again I watch you tumble and fall

But I am gentle, I do my best

Not to cast such notions so far away

Yet again you longed for the beating within another's chest

And if it is foolish to me, what should I say?

So through all the knives and tender lies

I will keep my chin held aloft

And when I break, there won't be butterflies

For I'd rather be filled with wasps