(I think I've lost the ability to start things, so please forgive this poem for not having an attention grabbing genesis)
I've been twiddling my thumbs for almost eight months now
Putting off all that I care about
(And especially everything that I don't. Here's lookin' at you, AP World History)
Sitting around amassing a booklet of words to use in the future for novels and whatnot
But only using them in essays so I seem smarter than I am
(For example, susurrus means 'a whispering or rustling sound; a murmur')
Hording anything affiliated with Ben Folds because he makes me feel things on occasion
(I currently have 189 songs of his on my iTunes library; No one understands me.)
Making dick jokes at lunch while masking the thoughts of substance ricocheting around in my head
(Also your mom jokes because no one would think that you're crying internally about the uncertainty of the afterlife whilst making lewd stabs at their mother's integrity(and vagina. Ba dum tss.))
Apparently craving the lingering feel of another's touch
As illustrated by my subconscious through the medium of dreams
(I had a dream a few weeks back that Ben Folds licked my hand; My stomach folded (hahahah, folded) in on itself.)
Thinking that my feelings of misanthropy and apathy and everything else I can't find the words for yet are mine alone because everyone else is too stupid to have thought them themselves
(Even though I know that I'm not particularly special and I should stop being so elitist and stupid)
But I've finally found a light at the end of the table in the last place I'd expect--
(I meant to say tunnel, but hey, the source of said light does sit at my lunch table.)
A cherubic Presbyterian boy with an aversion to all things perverse,
(Which includes my sailor's tongue and occasional tendencies to want to put it on a member of my own sex, thought he doesn't know about that)
A spec on cleanliness on the grimy waistcoat of humanity who makes me want to be the best I can be
(Today when I saw him, I only swore once; I was very proud of myself)
But maybe I'm just jumping the gun
Because what would a good Christian boy want with a heathen like me who isn't even sure she believes in God?
Maybe his prolonged contingencies were merely contingent and I'm just overreacting because of my few and far between incidences of human contact.
(Seriously. Don't touch me.)
Maybe I just want someone to talk to for hours about everything and nothing at all.
(What with me being relatively antisocial, it's hard to find people with similar mindsets.)
Maybe it's just because the way the Bible quote on the back of his t-shirt conflicted so humorously with the way he shook his hips to a J-Lo song on "Just Dance."
(Seriously, though, it was hilarious. I was dying.)
Or the way our fingers brushed when we were catching frogs
Or the way he blushed when I stepped out in my bikini
(I went to a pool party today.)
Or the way he held me momentarily in the delirious confusion of the flashing strobe lights
Or the way he got one point higher on his research paper than me a month ago
(He was excited; I was upset.)
Or the way that he does everything nearly to perfection.
I could go on..
But I don't know.
Maybe I'll get over him in a week and slip back into myself.
Because, like I said, what would a good Christian boy want with a heathen like me?
The clock slowly ticks, ticking ticking ticking,
As time has come to a stop.
All we can hear is the ticking,
The ticking of the broken clocks.
We'll be lost in forever, over and over
Repeating our lives.
Memories are spilling over,
Hey, remember that time?
We met by accident,
Serendipity you could say.
I liked the way your eyes shined,
As you smiled that day.
But one problem led to another,
Nights blended into days.
What's the difference between midnight,
And the middle of the afternoon?
The clocks tick away the memories,
Tick Tick tick...
We dance across the realities,
Laugh at our lives.
We act so happily,
As our dreams are torn with time.
The clocks are ticking...
Every second is another year.
Everything was okay,
Everything began to disappear.
Hey do you remember?
"Do I remember?
I can't say that I can..."
The clock slowly ticks, ticking, ticking, ticking...
And my memories of you begin to fade.
All I can remember is the ticking,
Our lives ticking away...
Tick tick tick...
Who are you?
Dancing with you
last night was fun
we must dance again
With fewer clothes on
Oh yes! Sweaty
The vile of acid touches his tongue,
It is bitter, burning and horribly wrong.
Lost or found, anything goes.
His slipping mind and this aching crime.
Everything ruptures corrupted by life,
even white in the black shallow mime.
Stupid, dumb-fuck. Why can't he talk?
The shadows dance on the dark,
alluring and cunning giving a spark.
Observe the scorching rays of light!
Neon and blinking on this gruesome night.
The spinning, spiralling world, and this opening void,
Every thing confusing this young, troubled boy.
Look at him! Look at him dance,
to the tune of an aphonic trance.
Blurred reflections on condensed mirrors,
terrible headaches, and vicious tempers,
Everything shifting on such hazy conditions but,
Will he dance and regret again?
This grotesque and stupid addictions.
Since I don't know if we'll ever meet again-
that we'll try to stay together
"I'll tell you someday."
Laughing and sticking your tongue out,
you were the most beautiful then.
When is that someday?
A link in the far distant future;
without any promise
Your back is growing fainter,
it's almost transparent now.
The fact that no matter how long my fingers were;
How much I grew;
How much I learned;
How much I matured-
that I could still not reach or touch you
or your standard;
I could do nothing
but slump to the floor,
Admit painful defeat-
The one who ran away-
It was no lie,
For I am
the true deceiver.
I say to the plaster
I just sit there
in a wooden, peeling
The Characters that I wrote then-
They don't dance for me anymore.
"Is that so?"
The poems that I scribbled-
on a napkin at a fast food restaurant,
Where are they now?
My memories and limits-
Are they gone?
"Why don't you figure out yourself?
Isn't the person,
who knows you best-
My light was gone.
My head wasn't thinking straight.
I let go.
What kind of excuses are these?
For being a coward,
For being a shallow person
who didn't see the world-
Sorry doesn't even take up half of it.
The beginning of the end,
when does that time come?
The promise that our naïve selves made together
You believed in those words.
For crushing your morals,
For mocking them,
For taking away your innocence-
"heaven's really crowded," peter said to me
over black coffee on Maple Street
while we watched the kings and counselors
in collegiate sweaters
lose all their religion
like we'd lost ours.
it fell like hailstones—
they all flipped their collars up
and their heads down;
we looked cozy in the window
and we laughed like we weren't
"this weather's crazy," he shook his head
and rubbed his hands together for the friction;
"hellfire looks better every day."
we smiled and put our gloves back on
to revel in our endless earthly cold.
quietly we weighed his words
and decided they were heavy;
we lit a cigarette to share,
blew the smoke up at the holy high school dance
and said with youthful vehemence,
Behold, she dances in my room at Night
To nocturnal melodies played sweetly
Under the full Moon's rays of pretty light
That dance like the Doll ever so sweetly
She is dancing ever so gracefully
To the piano of pristine beauty
It is she I shall always love to see
For she always loves to dance happily
She is my Enchanted Doll full of love
And I'm glad that I see her in my mind
She's one the Fairies Enchanted above
And I'm glad to see her dance in her mind
She's dancing to the sweetest melody
Happily she's dancing in harmony
By night at twelve,
You'll hear the cricket bleat.
Go dance the song of Death.
But remember to count your breath.
Sitting across from you,
as you study,
is better than a hundred million other things
that seem little in comparison.
Sitting across from you,
as your fingers dance away across the keyboard
is better than the high hills in Tuscany,
thin, golden light flitting through the endless rows of great, green pines
stretching their arms upward
to kiss the warm sun,
in gentle ways, like young lovers do.
Sitting across from you,
when you’re away getting coffee,
is kind of like you still being here,
but a little colder,
a little darker
and the room doesn’t smell the same way
and I don’t feel the same kind of happiness
but knowing that you’re coming back to me
is better than watching the clouds in summer,
than the endless blue ocean veiling for a time,
the bright, brilliant, celestial fireflies, burning away,
warm in all that darkness.
Better than warm breezes carrying the stuff of flowers.
Watching the pale skin on your nose crinkle
is better than all the paintings of all the artists of all time
because it’s your skin, it’s your nose.
Sitting across from you
and hearing your soft voice is better than all the melodies,
all the strings delicately plucked,
all the songs about love,
simply because it’s your voice.
Sitting across from you
as your eyes meet mine and
watching you smile
is better than anything I could experience alone,
simply because I have you to share it with.
Sitting across from you,
just being with you,
is a marvelous experience which isn’t wasted on me,
which is why I’m telling you about it.
I will not go quietly, or do as you say
or extinguish my light, just to act in your play
I will never endure all your senseless remarks
That spring from your weakness like shots from the dark
I’ve often been fooled by the words of a friend
who lead me on blindly to treacherous ends
I’ve allowed you to hurt me I’ve opened my heart
As you filled it with poison and tore me apart
I will stare at the sun as my anger takes form
I will climb to great heights in the gut of the storm.
I will curse this false trust that ensnares me like rope
that binds my torn wrists and suffocates hope.
I will let my voice sound from the top of this hill
I will sing, I will dance, I will laugh, yes, I will