The pictures of us
are usually serious and plain
we usually don't have anywhere to go, just home
it's hard to find you, we're distant
but we don't write down our stories like it is and we are
as a child I do weird things over and over
but you laugh, and I hear it because you're the only one ever here
it's so sad they don't think you're alive
because we always do creative things together
and you look at my head
and pause
and just listen
and you choose not to judge me
even though you can
(or I'd hate you)
because you're right here
on the musical steps between us
piano keys, back and forth
they say we're all far, you there and me here, just as the world
the world seems so far- so far- so far from your door
but in the dark room of the world where no one can withstand the darkness yet it's all around
you can be connected with
they say it's not possible
closing is a verb not done, they're closed not opening
the creation of the reality believed
shut shut shut
But they cannot ******
They've made god their slave, they've taped his arms around his torso with concrete
Don't breathe
They've taken away any words he can say because they can't hear
But they haven't taped his eyes because they didn't think he had any
So he blinks
And he walks up and down, the stairs between us
'Distant' is his High school label
He breathes with his nose
And the 'distance' doesn't seperate him from the sky
water is the world, a huge ocean
where what you feel you know
you're always feeling, heavy water the world
your right brain is dominate
the world goes through you
then you leave the world in no possibility, stopped
you shut, shut, not productive
you're missing the sky
the sky is the most open thing
something in there is the freest
no one can shut the sky
anything above
like stars, sun, weather, heaven, god
and anything above can connect to heat
only flying things swim in the sky, feeling it
weird narnian creatures
normal people
fly with their hands
god touches open things
god has made stories with thousands of shut things
god teaches the black boxes on an island since he likes big spaces
god believes in impossibility, not shutting
because boundaries don't have to be permenant
but the stronger they are, they will never float up to the sky
so god lives in no broken glass
he blinks in the dark water of impossibility where no belief kills and kills any belief
we think that the way it is on earth is everywhere and up
but that is shut with a thousand locks
and heaven is in a garden.
who shuts that gate knowing it's boundaries?
you shut a different garden, with a thousand walls
self-proclaimed mayor of a city
and yourself the same way
Because of christian language that did ******
they stole millions of beloveds from god, and threw them back stone
all statues in a garden
unable
with a can or two
an angel on every stair
a personal word waiting in an exotic flower
on the dismembered grave
on the bird in a cage
on the artist in a box
motion quiet in the sacredness of a terrific soul alone
Rain making them colder than on redder skin, bluer stone without dark orange organs
Cold by the flowers
Pianos, better organs than any around, are stepped on like garden stone steps
Between the ground and any stairs up
steps just for unbuttoned sleeves over them
no wire around a wrist
steps for god, carefully quietly
steps for the one brother in the statues
the connection
the one brother of the three that uses his impossible hands to see
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 6:17 PM UTC
The pictures of us
are usually serious and plain
we usually don't have anywhere to go, just home
it's hard to find you, we're distant
but we don't write down our stories like it is and we are
as a child I do weird things over and over
but you laugh, and I hear it because you're the only one ever here
it's so sad they don't think you're alive
because we always do creative things together
and you look at my head
and pause
and just listen
and you choose not to judge me
even though you can
(or I'd hate you)
because you're right here
on the musical steps between us
piano keys, back and forth
they say we're all far, you there and me here, just as the world
the world seems so far- so far- so far from your door
but in the dark room of the world where no one can withstand the darkness yet it's all around
you can be connected with
they say it's not possible
closing is a verb not done, they're closed not opening
the creation of the reality believed
shut shut shut
But they cannot ******
They've made god their slave, they've taped his arms around his torso with concrete
Don't breathe
They've taken away any words he can say because they can't hear
But they haven't taped his eyes because they didn't think he had any
So he blinks
And he walks up and down, the stairs between us
'Distant' is his High school label
He breathes with his nose
And the 'distance' doesn't seperate him from the sky
water is the world, a huge ocean
where what you feel you know
you're always feeling, heavy water the world
your right brain is dominate
the world goes through you
then you leave the world in no possibility, stopped
you shut, shut, not productive
you're missing the sky
the sky is the most open thing
something in there is the freest
no one can shut the sky
anything above
like stars, sun, weather, heaven, god
and anything above can connect to heat
only flying things swim in the sky, feeling it
weird narnian creatures
normal people
fly with their hands
god touches open things
god has made stories with thousands of shut things
god teaches the black boxes on an island since he likes big spaces
god believes in impossibility, not shutting
because boundaries don't have to be permenant
but the stronger they are, they will never float up to the sky
so god lives in no broken glass
he blinks in the dark water of impossibility where no belief kills and kills any belief
we think that the way it is on earth is everywhere and up
but that is shut with a thousand locks
and heaven is in a garden.
who shuts that gate knowing it's boundaries?
you shut a different garden, with a thousand walls
self-proclaimed mayor of a city
and yourself the same way
Because of christian language that did ******
they stole millions of beloveds from god, and threw them back stone
all statues in a garden
unable
with a can or two
an angel on every stair
a personal word waiting in an exotic flower
on the dismembered grave
on the bird in a cage
on the artist in a box
motion quiet in the sacredness of a terrific soul alone
Rain making them colder than on redder skin, bluer stone without dark orange organs
Cold by the flowers
Pianos, better organs than any around, are stepped on like garden stone steps
Between the ground and any stairs up
steps just for unbuttoned sleeves over them
no wire around a wrist
steps for god, carefully quietly
steps for the one brother in the statues
the connection
the one brother of the three that uses his impossible hands to see
Copyright Chelsea Palmer July 17, 2013
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