mike-mcc
Whisper
Canadian
Poems
5
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4
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523
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Fleeting Images.
I'm in your sickly in-between, / Catching bullets in slow motion / For my metal meltdown correction collection
17
Dec 21, 2011
Insecurities.
My hand was covered with drying blood. The broken pieces of the things you cared about cut me, and I was willing, and I was able, and I picked them up and put them away. A scratch meant nothing. The blood meant I was alive. My scribbles came straight from the heart. / I wanted nothing more than to sleep there at your door, but it's a dangerous place and a dangerous time and if you opened it up, I might have stood a chance. I didn't mean to interrupt you. I didn't mean to hurt you. But we all lose battles, don't we? / I used to be meek and quiet about these messes. Then, I felt like shit. But now, I'm the common denominator and wonder why I don't quite fit. What the fuck is wrong with me? When I was with you, I was perfect, but all together, we were broken.
37
Dec 21, 2011
Last Call.
If these strings are the last thing I hear, I will know-- / You were true and you were kind and I dreamed a million sunsets with you in the span of a second, the sound of a pin dropping, the droplet of time in which my eyes flashed and for one thousand years we all stood perfectly still. I am alive and it is some kind of tomorrow and I'll remember who you were for as long as I live. If you ever questioned that, I hope you never have to again. Good night, and good luck, and you made it, kid, you did it all exactly the way you always knew you would. / Your dreams are more than fodder for the stars.
13
Dec 21, 2011
Dream Reset.
I couldn't remember anything about particle physics or lucid dreams when I was the sky. I could only be, I could only swirl across the great paradox of everything and nothing. I could only watch the things that happened within me. It was like a beautiful symphony, one that needed me but operated without me, one that defined me without taking a single chisel to my being. / So what was it like to be the sun? You changed me daily. You let my core revolve around you and you helped me spin. You let me see new places, you clouded me and cleared me, you cut through me and reached in deep and redecorated my insides with barely a word. But when you cracked, when you went supernova on this little quiet galaxy, you burned right through me and exposed my insides to the elements. My outer glow was gone, my inner self was singed, and what I thought I was, I wasn't. It was like watching a plane crash. It was like I was a passenger who learned he was a pilot but couldn't stop the fall. / So what was it like to be the tiny crack that tore the engine off?
38
Dec 21, 2011
Subconscious Stirs the Shit.
I lay my head on my pillow to catch my breath. Thirty minutes are all I need to find my focus and fight the forces facing me down. Am I right? I am right. The nap proves to be enough. / Am I wrong? I am wrong. Thirty minutes are all my brain needs to fracture my fugue and fiddle the futures, fucking me up. The nap proves to be rough. I lay my head on your pillow to catch your breath. / And it opens up a billion doorways I closed, a billion I chose (beside myself, so this fog could escape) to forget to facilitate as your friend far from home. When they open, it's osmosis; my cell goes insides-out. I open up a single doorway I chose, a doorway I close (behind myself, so the dog won't escape) to forget not to indicate to your friends this is home.
76
Dec 21, 2011
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