please
I’ll ask you with kindness one last time:
do not
absolutely, do not
(oh, brown eyes, brown eyes…)
break.
your bones are splintering,
the fibers that knit together your identity
are becoming unwoven
it seems—
& I don’t ask this easily,
nor without understanding
your lingering pain:
for the same ocean you drown in,
I’ve come to know
& the same bridges you’ve jumped from,
I’ve stood upon, aloft—
& with the wind&waves; I bend,
yes, I, too, bend--
with our evenings awash in escapism
& our midnights amiss with noise
[& our daylight alive with passioned kisses
never meant to ever say good night]--
yes we bend, dear friend,
but we absolutely cannot break.
dear love of mine,
we are two branches that ache on the same rotten, fallen tree,
two butterflies with gold-plated wings that labor to sing,
two corpses encased before their time,
two veins that race with the same
bloodlust for living
[but also for dying,
for that is our flaw,
& we do it exceedingly well].
for what I give to you is peace,
& what you give to me is inspiration—
two things that fight to exist
in a world that throws them out with
itswars&itslost;&itspoets.;
so in fact it is not love
we share in our greetings,
but rather the
enabling of
narcissism,
masochism,
& the misery to which
we harbor&cling;.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 6:06 PM UTC
please
I’ll ask you with kindness one last time:
do not
absolutely, do not
(oh, brown eyes, brown eyes…)
break.
your bones are splintering,
the fibers that knit together your identity
are becoming unwoven
it seems—
& I don’t ask this easily,
nor without understanding
your lingering pain:
for the same ocean you drown in,
I’ve come to know
& the same bridges you’ve jumped from,
I’ve stood upon, aloft—
& with the wind&waves; I bend,
yes, I, too, bend--
with our evenings awash in escapism
& our midnights amiss with noise
[& our daylight alive with passioned kisses
never meant to ever say good night]--
yes we bend, dear friend,
but we absolutely cannot break.
dear love of mine,
we are two branches that ache on the same rotten, fallen tree,
two butterflies with gold-plated wings that labor to sing,
two corpses encased before their time,
two veins that race with the same
bloodlust for living
[but also for dying,
for that is our flaw,
& we do it exceedingly well].
for what I give to you is peace,
& what you give to me is inspiration—
two things that fight to exist
in a world that throws them out with
itswars&itslost;&itspoets.;
so in fact it is not love
we share in our greetings,
but rather the
enabling of
narcissism,
masochism,
& the misery to which
we harbor&cling;.
this leaves the sourest of tastes in my mouth--
