Fuzzy Little brain of mine Wanders about the earth Wondering when and where The light switch will come on The window sings to me songs of something. Blurry noise hidden in a vase. That once held red roses Calls to me Announcing I am to quiet To still To be filled with confusion and if I don't move now I will never be more than Somebody that once was Wandering and Wondering
My knees are weak as I fall to the ground. The stairs I lay on has yellow fuzzy carpet. Carpet that is full of crumbs, dust, and nail polish. The yellow carpet was once white, but is now not, no one knows why only it knows. My knees can’t stabilize as my brain can’t make a move. Without a moving body I have no moving brain, but I can’t have a moving body without a brain. All I can think of is the words you put in my head. I’m to scared of your movements and every word you say is like a million of needles pinching me to teach me a lesson. I’ve become to weak that I don’t seem weak to myself. Because for as long as I can remember I’ve been like this, weak. That I forgot how it felt to try or work hard. So once I lay on the yellow fuzzy carpet. Not worried someone will see my salty tears hit the stairs, or see me falling to the ground. All I care about it whether or not if you know your words hurt too much to explain. Whether or not you choose to be this way. Because I’m feeling the yellow fuzzy carpet beneath me, and I’ve been on this yellow fuzzy carpet stairway to many times before.
Is this okay? It's practically a draft and I only feel a need to write poetry when I am panicking or crying
I always told you keep your secrets like ink, right up under layers of my skin where I can see the black mark they leave. Impermanence never deterred me from reaching for your hand like an anchor to measure my weight against paper-thin realities. Sink with me, lace my muscles and bones with the soft heavy haze of summer, let it rest heavily inside my head. Mark my body where it's out of sight, mark these moments each on the wall, leave them etched in tallies like we don't care how many we win or lose. In such a state as we are, everything fades into the white noise of soft muttered phrases. I twist my fingers around my anxieties, make them diluted and palatable for the journey ahead; I've been afraid of losing ground or losing you but it's unclear now as to how those fears came about in the first place, and their threads are unraveling as we speak. I think I tend to glorify these things more than I should, more than letting them fade into the background. The subconscious is a lonely place, no man should have to go there alone. Dress this up or down, but the underpinnings remain the same, and I've always found comfort in the way the ache of all the world's catastrophies rests in my bones like a shared evolutionary sorrow; I like how the pain grows my muscles stronger and my skin thicker. I think stitching myself into you has added new layers to these moments and new stories behind my eyelids and a few new marks on my wall of "chances I'm glad I took."
I think taking in the pain has given me the voice so sought-after and I think I've grown enough of it through my blood now to build you up how you deserve, and to show you that casting stones is not always a plan for failure; sometimes we find miracles in the middle of wrong calculations.
You dream of the sun when your words begin to miss their mark, when you haven't seen the flaws of your actions until it's too late, when the tentative what ifs are swallowed by the looming presence of no. You begin to dream of the sun when you spill yourself into another and the other devours you whole and leaves you empty. You begin to notice changes in the lack of color in your skin or the way your ribs feel a little sharper under your fingers, but change is natural, you tell yourself and try to forget the fuzzy things in the corners of your mind that tell you stop, because what do voices know? You drum your fingers along the edge of who am I, turn the phrase over in your hands and try to forget the answer as you dream of the sun and being swallowed by it, warm.
At times I feel socially awkward hiding away those eyes from contact mumbling and stuttering as though I were stumbling, upon the words as I was discovering.
Please don’t think I don’t want to talk when I rush out, Please don’t think I don’t want to talk, when I don’t open your messages.
I escape out of nervosity I feel the fuzziness in my head butterflies in my stomach nervosity in my nerves lack of air in my lungs tremble in my muscles and the gritting of my teeth on my nails as it drains every ounce of energy out of me.
I hide behind shadows so I don’t encounter any social interaction.
No matter how many times I plan and play a conversation in my head I shudder and fret in reality, making myself look like an awkward mess.
I want to be friends I want to say hi but the words do not escape for I feel tongue tied.
I feel conscience and dreadful for being such an awkward mess choking on words unable to let them escape my tongue.
I am thinking more than I am speaking I can have a conversation in my head but somehow, I find it difficult in reality.
But then you reach out and make the first move It makes it easier; only to find myself being an embarrassment once again.
But you don’t judge you play it cool and remain patient you still show an eager to talk and maybe that was what I needed to be comfortable and me.