it started with a moleskin sitting on my passenger seat.
i keep it there just in case i'm struck with inspiration. before
i would roll up windows, turn off car, open apartment door,
drop everything, find pen (pressing it down til it bleeds
all over) only to find i'd have nothing to say, it was gone, lost.
so i write, at midnight, in a car with the windows down even
though it's 90 degrees, because i love the sound of a train
whistling, ache with the wind scraping trees to create a voice
for himself, but all he can muster is a scream.
and now i'm reading my words aloud, trying to make them fit,
puzzle pieces when the picture is just ocean and sky.
but the sound of my voice clashes against the unquiet silence;
the result is harsh and unnatural.
in the end i can only think this one thing, with words that refuse to mesh:
i wish you'd get out of my head. i wish you'd leave me to... whatever.
i wish you'd let me pretend. leave me alone where i'm at my best. beautiful
alone. where there's no need to lie, truths are pointless to hide (here,
I'm the only one speaking, and God's the only one listening). let me lie.
i want to say this all perfectly. i want to scream it, my voice riding
wind through trees. but pen poised, i lose all my courage. coward:
a dreamer who grew up.
**** dreams, the only thing that keeps
me from forgetting what i'm missing.)