Who's the boy with the sickly eyes down the hall? He looks so familiar. But his name I can't recall. He's on my lips, I can feel him right there, hope he didn't catch me with my mouth open stare.
He looks like he needs a nap, to get some rest. His clothes all wrinkled, his posture's a mess.
But he has a thick line of laughter creased in his cheek. His smile has some tatters, and he's got coffee stains for teeth. His glasses are fogged up ***** with that day's grease. If he took a bit of care for himself he'd be looking, well, better than what I've seen.
Too bad he isn't better than he is right now.
some ideas ive had, some remarks ive heard, and a few insecurities i need to face
Cough perfume. Let's leave here soon. Breathe with lungs wide, diaphragm aflame, nose wide open like only love can blame. Let's set this place back a century. Bring on the dark ages, tug the heartstrings, form noose from sweaty bed sheets. Listen to rain on aluminum awnings. Pout after you mourn. Dream in past tense, and use passive tone in your speech.
I'm with the trees in June. Let's catch fire and leave here soon.
A road made by walking where you shouldn't. Told not to by the full throat, taken aback by paths desired away. A brand apart from the rest, but so, too, the others can follow. Heels that graze floors in an apathetic stutter strut. A stepped up out of time gangliness of lanky mellow. Walk where one may, walk where one wishes.
I'm starting to not remember how you looked. But I remember little things, like how you'd fold half the page to dogear your place in a book. The smell of old canvas which you stretched when you were manic, and watched it turn whiter as you grew depressed thinking of how to paint it.
The grinding of your teeth in your sleep, ******* it it drove me up the wall. Still does, because as I sit here writing it from memory I shuddered.
The smell of your shampoo whose brand name I forgot. Because if I could I'd have a case of it. Just to be nearer to you.
You used to smile when I'd read you something I wrote. Now I've found a website where I can post. You always told me I had some type of talent to capture moments nobody noticed, a photographer with words instead of apertures. But aren't they meant to be worth a thousand more than mine? I think you held for me a little bias.
You told me I'd end up as a paragraph in an essay of some American Literature student's midterm grade. She'd ace it, and I loved where you placed me. In the middle of everything better than I was, in this future of whimsy where I kept writing just because.
I can't tell you what you gave me for those years, as short as they were. All I can do is tell other people that any confidence or talent is all due to her.
I miss you. Be well where you are. Sorry for all the ****** poetry :^)
Can't write a poem right now. Can't figure out the sound, or how the rest of this should look. My phrasings are obvious most times, and don't get me started on my slant rhymes. So what do I have, as a writer, to offer the betters of my peers? Quiet conversation, loud argumentation, fingertips clacking mechanics and a penchant to steer myself across the happy, golden union.
I sometimes forget the only thing holding me down is the force of something much larger than I. It's the firing pistons alive in the mind behind both of my grey-blue faltering like the autumn to the winter eyes.