if you open any old dictionary
and search for the word “end”
you may find so many definitions
for three letters in the thin yellowing paper
sitting still as they have been for so long.
three letters that will forever remain
stained forever as an encumbrance,
forcing me to believe
that everything is but a straight line
that at some point is cut off
and usually gets lost along the way
long before then.
what i see
is a completely separate being
moving in the mirror.
i watch you spit toothpaste
into the sink
and cry off your makeup
that i saw you spend hours on
in a two-dimensional buzz
and i watch my body do the things
i should be doing every day.
are thick blocks
that only seem to find pleasure in
interrupting my speech
and my smile.
they chatter while broken
crawl hesitantly out of my mouth.
i carefully mold the definitions
into clay that’ll dry up in the sun, and
like a pin.
and i feel my bones come together
in my state that i call my own
my eyelashes off
clipping the idea of being full grown.
i ignore the fact that some things are inevitable, always cautious not to be too aware
your F major eyes
are a color only i can see
for that reason i am fully convinced
you only made them just for me.
the ghost of your fingers
still lingers on my guitar strings today
the ones i still strum
with the things i’m scared to say
i no longer hear your F major eyes
nor can i listen to your G minor hands
your E major skin
i’m doing what i can
but now under all the harmonies
the only melody i hear makes me sad
i’m only playing loudly because
silence drives me mad
i’m standing here
with my own body
i am inside, or rather, i am
a dome of bacteria and flesh.
is there even a difference
between being something
and being within it
that i, a dome of bacteria and flesh,
my thoughts correlate with my
sentences upon sentences
thriving in the same state
that i am something.
i feel like i am a machine, a ball of bacteria and flesh only made to survive. am i myself or an organism?
the clouds continue to amaze me
edges of silk and cream
i used to want to lie down on a cloud
fall asleep, and dream.
now that i’m older i know
that i’m unable to nap on clouds
to float in the smooth luxury
is to fall on the cold, hard ground.
when i was younger, i could easily expect things to work out well. now that i’m older i feel the need to worry about every result possible.
i wonder if i dont seem complex,
if i am the definition of the mold,
if i can no longer be seen as moss and just become the wallpaper.
i wonder if that will keep others glance off of me.
i wonder if i become the definition of boring,
could I finally exist as one being.
and be content with the fact that i exist.