sometimes i read my own writing and wonder what it's like to know me
hoping the words will open a window let the clean air in so i can climb through the frame inspect the damage, avoid the broken glass turn on the lights
wishing the words would be more straightforward yes and no black and white this is how you feel deal with it
well, i feel done with dealing with it in monochrome, shades of grey stealing away the colours of a cartoon landscape i think that this would be easier dealt with if i could see it all through stained glass diamond-shaped panes breaking up the scene, shattering the illusions unseen and through rose-coloured glasses black and white become so much more obvious to my strained, searching eyes
sometimes i read my own simple, twisted writing and i wonder what it's like to know me not the words, not the straight lines that curve around my soul but the soft ones that make up my body, that protect my smile and my eyes and the ones that lead gently down to my hands twisting around each other in some dance that attempts to hide the constant urge to write out my disbelief in the existence of myself
yes and no still escape me but i keep finding shards of stained glass like a treasure hunt, like some accidental quest picking them up from the damp sidewalk discovering them cutting into an open palm and i take them, then accept the offered hand looking off into the sunset through the bright blue and blood-red of sharp reality