Weeping at the strings
Plucking away these fears
Ive climbed the steps
Knocked on the door of forgiveness
Broken windows,
****** floors,
****** me on the stoop of god
Someone needs to know
That we have bled too much
If we are all his children
Than why haven’t these deaths counted
for some salvation of sin
I watch as more bodies show up on the news,
Boys laid out on the sidewalk
Arms spread and bleeding
Crucified to this concrete
Hoping for some kind of remembrance
Who’s side are you on lord

I placed the sheet music against my side
The hot iron of the notes beat their way inside
Every strike of the mallet crushing it’s way in
Such a sad song, what a terrible tune
It hung in the pit of my stomach
Held by the fluttering of two song birds
Both with wings plucked from their bodies
They read aloud the music like an anthem
Knew every tap in the ivory and stroke of the clock
I dream now with earmuffs,
Anything to lay to rest their somber songs
Watch the ceiling as it spins and shakes
The eggshell cracking with every blink in the night
I’ve forgotten what it is to breath, the taste of a sunlit shoulder,
All I do now is play audience to their noise
No longer can I even hear my voice

I'm washing my ribs
Trying to wipe away this ink from my bones
These weeks numbers count down like some kind of bomb ready to break of its hollow shell
We lit the fuse the day those "I love yous" flew from our lips
I don't mind dying a martyr for your affection
All the shrapnel in the end  will be worth every second with you in my arms

These late nights and early mornings leave my mind wondering,
Examining the complexities i leave behind when I wake again,
Something about where the birds learned their songs
Or how the rivers knew which direction to run in,
I've dissected the smallest parts of myself,
Cut them open end to end to see what contents they held,
Hoping that somewhere inside myself held the answers,
I am learning the ins and outs of the thought process
How one triggers another, what a shotgun conversation,
Playing target practice with paper and a pen,
Writing in ink so I can't take back the past outbursts,
Rambling is easy when the mind is alive and the body is deceased.

what will it take to finally understand
the pattern in my lungs
and the reason for the air