We sit around and talk about how the sky is falling,
How the world feels heavy and displaced every day
We talk about how our sky is falling,
Yet we move out of the way

We silently wish for a change to be made
We sit still as they commit their deadly sins
We search for some sort of meaning
Yet we never reach within

There are wars in our world, “but not close to us”
We talk about the news and debate over motives
But when it doesn’t hit home
The next day it goes unnoticed

So we still host our dinners, we write our Christmas lists
We change the station to music, we pour a glass of red
We talk about our day at work, we watch our favourite show
We kiss our children goodnight, we tuck them into bed

But there was a time those families did the same,
Wanted to make a change, but thought it wasn’t close
Until days later it really did hit home,
And it took away, what they loved most

I love to move like a virus
inside her body,
balancing the wish to be killed
with the need to be spread.

we used to find security
in blankets
acceptance
in our mothers arms
love
when daddy wiped away our tears
stories
on our grandmothers hands

and now we have insecurity
masked by money and clothes
we’re not accepted unless we have
a following, a brand
we’re told to love is to be weak
and what stories?
all I see is plastic in place of wrinkles

I’m meeting a new mystery
And it’s introducing itself with rage

Who’s to say what’s limited to me?
Why can’t I collect?
Why am I forced to shed skin I barely wore?

I want to wear you until you fall off
Through four seasons of the year

I want to feel you feed me your troubles
I want to fix you

And then

I want to feel you leave me once we’re done
I want to hear all your goodbye’s at once

I bought a piece of damaged art.  Art so complex and abstract, with dark colours and rough textures, broken faces and trapped doors. What in past may have been innocent, has now become jaded, corrupted by ideas and devoured by hungry rage.  The tunnel of fate has flushed this paintings’ nature, seduced the purity of its essence.  A master piece has been morphed.  The price has gone up.  The wall space needed for this work of art would be massive, secure, and bullet proof.  The nails will dig deep, this piece will sooner or later feel heavy.

But the pride of showing off this commitment is precious.  It’s tempting and full of promise.  A piece so desirable and unique, others wonder how it was hung so high.  Like a crystal brick in the wall, so rare and contagious, persuasive and mysterious. Perhaps I fell in love with this foggy picture, I adjusted the lens of my perception - clarity now being a boring adventure.

So what stops me from taking this heavy, disturbing painting down?  Do I fear the ladder, panic I will drop this estranged beauty on the ground?  Maybe I enjoy viewing it from such a distance, I neglect what it really would look like up close.  I detach myself from its reality, only to live on in our own anxious dream.  For what exists in this fantasy, is not eternally destructive, it’s illusory and… incredible.

I know the day will come.  The day my walls wear thin.  The nails will get rusty and break, the painting will slip and surrender, and I will catch it… only to realize how much smaller and light it really is.  How beautifully innocent it has come to be.  Colours will be vivid, broken faces turning into blameless smiles, and trapped doors now unlocked.  With its temper diminished and bliss established, it will look vulnerable and foolish, not suitable for my passion craving mind. And I will take this small, uninteresting painting, and throw it away.

And look for a new damaged one to hang on my wall.  

And look for a new person to fix.

The best things in life are the simplest things in life. The warmth of the sun through my window. The early morning breeze through my hair. The first sight of buds on a tree. The touch of my skin against yours. The feeling of holding your hand. The luxury of I have of laying in your bed… over, and over again. Knowing your love is available, for free, without ask, and made especially for me.

It’s not love until it hurts. My heart boils and with little bursts, it grows wings that crave flight. I’m leaving the fight, against what might, work and not work. I’m setting myself free for you, take me entirely, love me selfishly, need me excessively and consume my sanity. I don’t exist in time with you, I find myself looking…but for no escape, just looking – admiring, wondering, seeking more & more of what might be pain. The worthy ache. An anxiety I want to let in.

It’s not love until it hurts.