To write is to feel
And to feel is to be doomed

1198

A soft Sea washed around the House
A Sea of Summer Air
And rose and fell the magic Planks
That sailed without a care—
For Captain was the Butterfly
For Helmsman was the Bee
And an entire universe
For the delighted crew.

You really can’t make a mistake without people finding out
That you struggled and that you hurt their friends
That you lied and how do they know you won’t lie again
And how you didn’t consider anyone else’s feeling in the confusion of it all

They know everything about you except for the remorse you feel
How could you regret anything when you didn't stop
Or how you just couldn't stand the weight on your shoulders
That crushed any hope of coming out of this alive

People will always know you as the one who made someone else’s life a living hell
But they will not once consider
The hell of being you
And living with the pieces

I wish I had the imagination of Kurt Vonnegut
So that I could travel through time on my own
And so I could accept death
And so I could accept that not one thing can be changed at all

There are six posters on one wall
And nothing on the other three
There are four blankets on the bed
Two pillows but not one sheet
About fifty books on the shelf
Only half of them read
Plastic bottles in a plastic bag
I can’t bear to throw them away
All the movies are shoved in the corner
Along with the motivation I used to have
I keep the records next to my bed
Because I like to sleep near the things I love
And whenever I’m tired of the clothes I wear
I can just shut the closet door