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septemberPoems
I think in statistics, and you in heartbeats. I am. You are. I am. You are. I am chemical-based, you are a meaningful scar. You explore, covet, and hoard, anything near you. While I am stuck, looking at my addiction, through a lens. I am forever cursed: to skim for importance, to look only at the bigger picture, to glance only with logic's borrowed eye, but you are here beside me, and you take in every little detail. To me, blood is but a fluid, yet in your eyes, it is the fuel for lovers and the ink for poetry. You are feather pens, I am erasable chalk. The insomniac that is so filled with dreamer-talk. So enticed by the world, that you couldn’t close an eye. My mind is logic, reasoning, and your complete opposite. Every word has a different meaning in your perspective and every syllable holds a secret—      one you must find out. I am textbooks and punctuality and schedules. But you, you are the only person I can wait on. This is a cycle with ragged edges, bizarre. I am. You are. I am. You are. We are combined; a marvelous oxymoron.
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Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 10:40 PM UTC
A Marvelous Oxymoron.
I think in statistics, and you in heartbeats. I am. You are. I am. You are. I am chemical-based, you are a meaningful scar. You explore, covet, and hoard, anything near you. While I am stuck, looking at my addiction, through a lens. I am forever cursed: to skim for importance, to look only at the bigger picture, to glance only with logic's borrowed eye, but you are here beside me, and you take in every little detail. To me, blood is but a fluid, yet in your eyes, it is the fuel for lovers and the ink for poetry. You are feather pens, I am erasable chalk. The insomniac that is so filled with dreamer-talk. So enticed by the world, that you couldn’t close an eye. My mind is logic, reasoning, and your complete opposite. Every word has a different meaning in your perspective and every syllable holds a secret—      one you must find out. I am textbooks and punctuality and schedules. But you, you are the only person I can wait on. This is a cycle with ragged edges, bizarre. I am. You are. I am. You are. We are combined; a marvelous oxymoron.
These are just spare thoughts that I thought I should write down.
september
Written by
september
Canadian
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 10:40 PM UTC
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