and as the weather turns sour each year
i find my body curling in on itself
like yesterday’s paper burning up
to fuel that sweet, sweet fire.
and i find my toes sticking through old knitted socks,
and i find myself kissing new faces.
oh, the sweet with the bitter,
the moths and the red wine of it all.
how i’ve come to embrace this deep, purple weather,
and all that it brings within.
the lonely man drives
searching dirt roads to find the river’s gold.
passing passengers and dancers;
he held the best conversations
with those who didn’t speak his words
a tumbling terrace of homes,
twisting trees hugged by a wreath of children resting,
fingerprints faded onto a crinkled map
along the road, the shining smile lured him away
from his paper destination
the galloping hills whispered promises of piling gold,
but the truck driver was lead only by his toes.
turns out the faded map held nothing but memories
an echo of of turquoise laughter and crooked smiles soon to be forgotten;
the gold had been spun into his twinkling travels,
and yet he continued forward in a million different directions,
searching for something he had left behind.
the man who panned for gold,
found it slipping through his fingers.
im three years old and i watch the fireflies dance.
the reflection of the light sparkles in my eyes, and all that I want is to see them glow.
five years old, and i dance with the fireflies even though my parents tell me not to. jumping, twirling, falling on the sand while the water laps the beach's edge, leaving behind little pieces of seaweed like memories. I believe that if I try hard enough I can glow as bright as them. I know what I want.
10 years old, and i'm trying to catch the fireflies. To hold one in my fist, and have that little light be mine. I know what I want.
23, lying on the beach with a paper and pen. fireflies dance around my head, but they are less of a novelty and more of an annoyance. I swat at them with a furrowed brow and impatient hands. I grab the firefly, and crush it in my hand, watching the light fade out. I do not know what I want.
Babies are humans that haven't gone bad yet.
From the eager age of three, my mother taught me not to draw on myself, or I would get ink poisoning. Every time ink touched me, I'd wash it away with a warm cloth and some lingering worry. You wrote our initials on my ankle in deep blue pen, and I kept my left leg out of the bath for a week.
At the spritely age of eight, my mother made me promise never to talk to strangers. I kept my head down and my walls built high and I never said a peep to a stranger wrapped in shadow.
The first day I met you, I lay all my secrets down on that warm summer concrete and watched while you picked through them. (You didn't mind.)
Twelve years old, with a crooked, hopeful smile and my mother sat me down to talk about drugs. Those crazy, tempting things that will take away all your inhibitions and make you forget the very lessons that formed who you are. More addictive than anything you've ever had. They'll make you feel higher than the empire state building; without them, you'll go through a withdrawl worse than anything. A coexistent dependancy that will take over yourself. She reeled off a listen of words; Esctasy, LSD, ******, Crack. Somehow, she forgot to mention your name.
and im afraid
that im the reason
you don't believe in love
nobody ever writes poems about the heartbreaker
Darling, you've swallowed sunshine and it's showing through your smile.
when i was small and delicate
my parents were so worried
they grew up quite the pessimissts
and panicked in a hurry
so when I swallowed a firefly
their grabby hands and tight faces
thought called out 'will she die?'
they opened up my mouth and poked around in the dark places
they had such an uptight lifestyle
however, i was the opposite
the firefly i swallowed was shining through my smile.
i havent stopped smiling since