We sculpt clay into the things
we cannot force our bodies into
we string the alphabet
into stories we are afraid to live
we paint with colors we cannot see
and we ignore the music
inside the beat of our hearts
as we forget what it means to live
we muse on what was
once beautiful about being alive
and forget our thoughts
as we stare emptily to the sky
and the night swallows the day
and the day murders the night
and prayers become graveyards
for dead gods
and our beds become coffins
for dreams
round and round the clay
of the earth spins
and slips through our fingers
as time is something we waste
and our reflection
is a ghost of once was
and what could be
if we could only remember
who we were before
we became prisoners inside
our own minds and found shame
in the shape of our flesh
before we needed the alphabet
to speak of love
and metaphors to hide behind
and fairy tales to mend our wounds
back when the music
inside the beat of our hearts
was all we needed
to know that we were beautiful
Dec 24, 2017
Dec 24, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
We sculpt clay into the things
we cannot force our bodies into
we string the alphabet
into stories we are afraid to live
we paint with colors we cannot see
and we ignore the music
inside the beat of our hearts
as we forget what it means to live
we muse on what was
once beautiful about being alive
and forget our thoughts
as we stare emptily to the sky
and the night swallows the day
and the day murders the night
and prayers become graveyards
for dead gods
and our beds become coffins
for dreams
round and round the clay
of the earth spins
and slips through our fingers
as time is something we waste
and our reflection
is a ghost of once was
and what could be
if we could only remember
who we were before
we became prisoners inside
our own minds and found shame
in the shape of our flesh
before we needed the alphabet
to speak of love
and metaphors to hide behind
and fairy tales to mend our wounds
back when the music
inside the beat of our hearts
was all we needed
to know that we were beautiful
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