The Boy Called Padiddle

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 01, 2018

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Submitted: August 01, 2018

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The Boy Called Padiddle

 

My life is spent 

With thoughts of you racing

Like oncoming cars

Half ready for the night 

Like a burnt out single headlight 

 

If I had to remove clothing for each time

You crossed my mind

I'd pack up my car

And sunbathe on a nude beach 

Never to return to a single stich 

As if cotton became some sickly 

Torture device 

 

My heart plays padiddle 

With familiarity

Every time I put 

A few miles between us 

Here come the reminders

Speeding toward me

My heartbeat 

Playing like a CD with a single scratch

Skipping over a few lyrics 

Now I prefer to sing it 

With the pause you left  

With headlights as reliable 

As you were to my heart 

 

Here comes that comfortable numbness

Another thread count 

Banished to the floor boards of my soul

Oh how the October chill 

Balances the fire you lit

In my bones

 

I can't quite figure 

How to fix that other light in my mind

Or let the remaining one 

Burn out

Maybe I just don't want to

 

Sometimes I just want to be an officer

To my own thoughts

Police my mind into 

Giving my heart tickets 

Pulling your car over before it's

Gone too far

Come too close

Impounding the vehicle

That is you

In my memories

And letting it gather dust 

As it awaits auction to some 

New poor unfortunate heart

Maybe they'd fix your broken part

That I sought out as beauty

 

But the thought of you

Flying 90 down someone else's

Interstate thoughts

Gives my tortured heart

A lead foot into the night 

To bare my skin

For that one headlight


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