You ever picture insanity?
Barefoot wineglass catastrophe
God I just picture kicking a wineglass into someone’s face
I knew he wasn’t a poet, a writer, a prophet or lover in the way he never came back.
When you get the news you may be dying, chocolate doesn’t taste any sweeter.
I craved leaving like the sea begged the shore to come to bed.
I craved not moving a muscle like exhaustion rattled my bones.
For once in my life I was content in the standstill.
And if you lay at my back it’s hard to breathe. Two spines don’t equal out eloquently.
There’s mountains between us, and craters catered to the absence of the words the wind wished you’d say.
He said you have that talent and that baby and you wear it so beautifully. Eloquently, like none of their harsh words ever mattered, like you didn’t scrub away your finger prints wiping off the excess opinions.
Like you weren’t ever crucified for your weight and how you chose to carry it or sit it down when you got weary. Like loneliness was never a cloak you cradled with you. Like quiet was your nature and loud was your opening act. Like people weren’t diving in to receive more and leave you less. Girl, you have that talent and that baby and you wear it so beautifully.
Writing is unpacking, it’s unloading the freeloaders opinions & wiping slates clean.
Writing is packing, it’s loading up the freeloaders opinions & keeping score.
A narcissistic paradise, ink, pencil, pen, choose your weapon.