don't pull at my words
because they're meaningless
shells of ghosts and spirits
my heart is a wasteland
and it's unkempt and unsafe
the vines that live there have started
they choke the light out and i'm blinded
but what do you expect of a girl without eyes
so far-sighted that the present is always the
hardest sell
and a blink, that's all it takes
and quickly she crumbles, withdrawn
the safest of strategies really, because
these notions of silly lag, i don't subscribe
and you do
but i am not there and i cannot be that kind
i am from another time and place
and my fear doesn't exist in the realms of others
untethered and most shirk because i know my mind
the cost of resolution, millions and who's prepared
for that black tuesday
a depression filled with numbers and figures
because that's the best way to work it out
to walk over the mountain with pen in hand
holding the paper at its highest
no one trailing, and certainly no leader
scent and feeling my guide, and it's off, always
the forest not always kind to the dweller
the trees losing their foliage and it's drowning me
and every leaf, a tapping summer day of long ago
when i died-when i folded, because that was best
then, but that's what the brave one does, folds and ties
the string
suffocates out the light and rises up, seeking oxygen
and remembering the morning and how it burns to feel
the
sun on exposed wounds
blankets caskets of sorts
breathing from below a clotted dirt cage
and whose lungs can do that
what kind of filtration provides light when there's so
much
mud
the easy answer, none. there isn't one-it's best to make
one
it's best to start again, to keep going, the mountain's peak
miles away, maybe never to be reached
and maybe that's the point, because there's no up, there's
no down
it's just this, the trek through miles of useless wood
my feet caught up on blackberry brambles
and the blood that drips from my mouth as meaningless
as those ugly clouds that threaten rain and only run off
when the sun pokes harder
i am weak and i know this
my words an epidemic to a brain gone awry
an endless cloud of haziness that's only settled
when altered, so who's to blame
for self-inflicted wounds and piercings
take ownership i say and blame myself
knowing that my cold ways and unkind heart
are the sinners and all of the sin is mere reprisal
repayment for my own infliction upon others
basic notations, because when i'm not good enough
nothing ever is, and it doesn't matter
stay away from the flock, create the rules, do as i please
those that push back still will, they'll shunt my light
they'll remind me of why i tunneled away
seeking safety-and i'll retreat, as is form and expected
always what is best, because hurting is secondary to being
hurt
and it's easier to swallow that elephant whole
to take on the blame, to blame myself
the constant knowing
and the desperate feeding of a monster
that will die in the dark