Nov 2020
I have two facts for you,
First, anything and everything you see, is hiding something.
A funeral of shadows lurking behind it mourning the loss of everything that for once made the dark side kiss the light, and not regret it.
Second, you need to hold some things like, a prey gripping onto life before the predator. Softly. It mustn't hurt when it leaves.
1, 2, 3.
1, 2, 3.
Stop.
I am though bound by lightning,
The one that rips liberty right off the statue,
I am though in love with the pyre,
Of your arms, melting me into you.
1, 2, 3.
1, 2, 3.
Stop.
Like, when one with sleep murdered out of eyelids yearns to write poetry, the need to birth something out of emptiness is then the noose, shrinking around one's throat, trying to force out a lullaby instead.
Like, when one with courage ***** out of his consciousness tries to play a violin of frayed frets, freedom is the abuse caged within the paper ***** thrown and made to pass through the performer's shaking hands.
1, 2, 3.
1, 2, 3.
Stop.
I am though caged by swords,
The ones that cut "fly" right out of "butterfly",
I am though set free in the meadow,
Of your eyes, burning into mine.
First, anything and everything you see, is hiding something.
A funeral of shadows lurking behind it mourning the loss of everything that for once made the dark side kiss the light, and not regret it.
Second, you need to hold some things like, a prey gripping onto life before the predator. Softly. It mustn't hurt when it leaves.
1, 2, 3.
1, 2, 3.
Stop.
I am though bound by lightning,
The one that rips liberty right off the statue,
I am though in love with the pyre,
Of your arms, melting me into you.
1, 2, 3.
1, 2, 3.
Stop.
Like, when one with sleep murdered out of eyelids yearns to write poetry, the need to birth something out of emptiness is then the noose, shrinking around one's throat, trying to force out a lullaby instead.
Like, when one with courage ***** out of his consciousness tries to play a violin of frayed frets, freedom is the abuse caged within the paper ***** thrown and made to pass through the performer's shaking hands.
1, 2, 3.
1, 2, 3.
Stop.
I am though caged by swords,
The ones that cut "fly" right out of "butterfly",
I am though set free in the meadow,
Of your eyes, burning into mine.
Two counts of 1,2,3 was a coping mechanism developed during therapy. Since then it has helped through situations instilling insomnia and anxiety, both of which have been somewhat touched in the poem.
