I let myself finally admit it last night.
Twelve years seems like a long time to keep a secret,
especially from yourself.
I wanted to pretend that a friend wouldn’t do that,
That there was some sort of unspoken,
That wall fell to a small Swiss Army knife
and a few soft words in a dark room all those years ago, and I’ve never quite been able
to put it up again.
I suppose I’m not the first man to have his soul broken for the sake of exploration.
Why can’t you hear my silence?
Your ears, grasping at nothing at all, slowly realize the futility of their endeavor,
And detach themselves from your heart.
Now, my soul is shouting for a shoulder
To lay its broken pieces upon.
And all you hear
Is a tiny whimper of “Hold me”.
I ride the wings of memory,
Back to the days when there was much to see
There was no hurt, no sting of bees,
Back in the days of memory.
I know the days of memory.
I’ve seen the butterflies float in the breeze
In the days of rest and the days of ease;
These are the days of my memory.
Do you know the days of memory,
Back before innocence was lost in the trees?
The worst thing we knew was the skinning of knees,
Back in the days of memory.
I know that I’ll never be able to leave
And rest in the arms of summer's relief,
But the best thing to do is get caught in the breeze,
And ride on the wings of memory.
I have no need to be
Enveloped in hypocrisy,
Or write a novel, climb a tree,
Or contemplate a bumblebee.
There is no benefit for me
To finding the square root of 3,
Or calculating the number phi
To digit three-hundred-thirty-three.
I only feel the need to be
The me that I was meant to be.
I’ll find a way to just be free,
And settle down and simply
I have to wonder why
You call your work “Untitled”.
Is it just that forgettable, or do you simply not care?
Maybe you aren’t as creative
As your works would make us think.
Perhaps you are the type to leave labels off,
Hoping your readers will fill in the gaps.
Whatever it is, I’m sure you have your reasons.
This question will keep me guessing for a while.
If I can’t come up with a definitive answer, I’ll leave my musings
You hide behind crystal doors and glass walls,
Hoping to catch a glimpse of what you have only read in storybooks:
Perfection, doll-like and still.
Two lovers, in an embrace of pure harmony.
A young girl, her life ahead and the will to live and grow.
Only happiness and promise of days to come.
Then, there is a crack in the glass.
No more charades. This is real life.
Look to your left and see the lovers battle.
At your right, watch the girl die, slowly.
Straight ahead are the noose and blade, waiting for flesh and life to rip and take.
You walk toward the beckoning Reaper, only to be stopped
At the glass.
One more time.
Your life is before you.
Today, I stayed in a cold, dark room.
From inside these walls, not a soul can hear me.
The light won’t come on anymore;
Come to think of it, was there ever any light here?
No. There can’t be.
Why would there be? There is nothing to see.
Just me. Sitting here.