It's a dance I've forgotten the steps to
An equation, a misplaced formula
A melody with lost lyrics
Forgiving myself is as easy
As putting my hand on a hot skillet
Loving myself might as well be
Bitter are the memories
That marr my skin
In unwanted scars
And paint my prose
In purple flowers
Give me an IV
Of rain-soaked November nights
Or dry heat against my skin
And fresh earth between my toes
Or the feeling of a hand
On my shoulder
Maybe I need to talk to someone.
Always staring at this white ceiling
I can't paint
Aspirin doesn't take away the ache in my soul
That spreads to my mind
That spreads to my words
That stain my fingertips
And seizes my ankles
27 times I've been reminded that
These bones aren't going to hold me forever
And these feet will forget how to run
But I told myself they never found a need to
Instead simulating a universe
Where they had power
There's a cruel joke in there somewhere
That playing House as kids
Didn't include a guide on how
To reach that threshold in the first place.
Learning that hands were made to be used
And compromise was the cornerstone of love
I haven't really sat down to compose something that sounds coherent. Have some recent thought rambles from the last few months, instead.
You didn't know I saw you
Watching my train rumble away
A perfect stranger
Arms draped through the barred gate
When everyone behind you
Heaved lumber in indifference
I saw you curious
And I wonder if it lingered
When we disappeared
You see, every time an
Opportunity leaves me,
It leaves me violently
Like a bullet
And it scars,
Then I'm left with purple prose,
And bitterness over what
Might have been
Prepping for a move and stumbled across one of my newer old journals (Is that an oxymoron?)
And on these strings, I write a symphony of Eskimos,
Of the unknown.
I write a ballad of rhymes, almost-rhymes
And nonsensical *******.
I spill a little of my soul
Drop by drop
Into a song that no one will fully understand.
Not even I understand these things.
But they just seep out of me like sweat from a pore.
The door in my mind
Has been locked for a very long time;
Probably from the smoke drifting
From the alter I've built to my misgivings
There are tally marks on my stomach
Counting how many times I just stopped
And I feel my chest turn to stone
With every breath.
Sometimes I wonder what the fear
Of a storm at sea feels like,
And if it's anything similar
To the paralysis I feel when
Someone is screaming.
There are days when I wish
I could speak in color.
When a shiver goes down my spine,
I wonder what you're saying about
Maybe life was just an accident God made
When playing with dolls
Sometimes I wish everything made sense,
And that my mind wasn't so faceted
And tangled like string
But maybe Everything is a jigsaw puzzle
With missing pieces.
Maybe we're not supposed to understand.
Or maybe there's not anything we're supposed
Maybe life is screaming and color and a storm
Maybe God is still playing with dolls.
When I am old
And crows feet tickle the corners of my eyes
And silver parts the waters of my hair
When my knees crack like thunder
And my ankles somehow know it's going to rain
When my mind starts to slip
Like a camera out of focus
Or maybe like the water damaged photographs
In the attic
When I am ancient and beautiful
In the sunset years of my existence,
I hope to have achieved a life
Where I didn't fear walking through a war
For some semblance of peace.