imagine that you're space music
fast asleep, amidst a gentle swarm of piano keys:
A twisting void of everything you know
I, We forgot to give these words intentions
because dreams started to unravel us,
these open sores in outer space bleed a dream:
connect to the world using the diseases in our brain, spill onto the world
a chemical that does not fade across lightyears, not a poison, but I am blue in the face
from screaming at myself in my bathroom mirror, the “I” that does not dream, but
chokes me all the same.
re- asphyxiation
the voice that comes out of my throat regurgitates symbols that sound pretty,
but are only reflections of meaning, so that every word must be sick to its stomach, throwing
up, because the other I hasn’t forgiven me yet
do you ever feel like
your non-apparent body
reduces your state of being?
I feel like a ‘would’ chip.
my body reduced to half a heart, blood of thorns,
On my “knees” doing “back-breaking” work that requires me
to perform an autopsy on myself. Instead,
I curb-stomp it against the sidewalk and clench my jaw,
wondering how to dream a little bigger.
I’m not murderer, though you might charge me with heresy as I stick “my” fingers down
my throat, the middle and index, and bring back the dead from still-born memories drifting
through Space.
by never living in the first place, imagining that I is alive is simple;
pain seeps into my skin from the bile that I’ve slathered myself in.
If I were on earth, it would hurt more.
My writing takes up Space,
Allows me to breathe again,
convincing me that I am not just keys,
but an orchestra, a sound symphony
other times, it deludes
me into trying to make any noise at all
in the vacuum of what “I think”.
I can't keep exploding
for another million years,
when will this half-life end?
lost in a body I can't remember,
dreaming took the weight off of answering
to questions that appear timeless
I’ve always dreamed of being human. At every Birthday party I didn’t have because no one
would come, every time I cried myself to sleep, every time someone died and came back,
“I” thought to myself, “Wouldn’t it be better in a world without feeling?”
Everything has already exploded,
now, I am the last to go
What would writing be but the body of everything you wish to dream?
Aug 9, 2023
Aug 9, 2023 at 8:52 PM UTC
imagine that you're space music
fast asleep, amidst a gentle swarm of piano keys:
A twisting void of everything you know
I, We forgot to give these words intentions
because dreams started to unravel us,
these open sores in outer space bleed a dream:
connect to the world using the diseases in our brain, spill onto the world
a chemical that does not fade across lightyears, not a poison, but I am blue in the face
from screaming at myself in my bathroom mirror, the “I” that does not dream, but
chokes me all the same.
re- asphyxiation
the voice that comes out of my throat regurgitates symbols that sound pretty,
but are only reflections of meaning, so that every word must be sick to its stomach, throwing
up, because the other I hasn’t forgiven me yet
do you ever feel like
your non-apparent body
reduces your state of being?
I feel like a ‘would’ chip.
my body reduced to half a heart, blood of thorns,
On my “knees” doing “back-breaking” work that requires me
to perform an autopsy on myself. Instead,
I curb-stomp it against the sidewalk and clench my jaw,
wondering how to dream a little bigger.
I’m not murderer, though you might charge me with heresy as I stick “my” fingers down
my throat, the middle and index, and bring back the dead from still-born memories drifting
through Space.
by never living in the first place, imagining that I is alive is simple;
pain seeps into my skin from the bile that I’ve slathered myself in.
If I were on earth, it would hurt more.
My writing takes up Space,
Allows me to breathe again,
convincing me that I am not just keys,
but an orchestra, a sound symphony
other times, it deludes
me into trying to make any noise at all
in the vacuum of what “I think”.
I can't keep exploding
for another million years,
when will this half-life end?
lost in a body I can't remember,
dreaming took the weight off of answering
to questions that appear timeless
I’ve always dreamed of being human. At every Birthday party I didn’t have because no one
would come, every time I cried myself to sleep, every time someone died and came back,
“I” thought to myself, “Wouldn’t it be better in a world without feeling?”
Everything has already exploded,
now, I am the last to go
What would writing be but the body of everything you wish to dream?
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