If you were the saw to a magic box,
I'd be the one inside.
If you forgot the spell to make me whole,
I'd be fine just with you alone.
If you grew tired of my half-self,
i'd conceal it somehow,
long as you smile.
Because you,
you,
are the love of my life.

If you were gone,
I'd chase you.
If it seems too dramatic,
I beg of you,
notice the truth in these lines.
Look in the mirror,
and gaze as I do,
at the light you shine.
Because you,
you,
are a mystery,
even with all I know.

stranded on telephone lines
holding on deeply to conversions.
but i'm falling down,

suspended in air
i'm clinging to words
light and untouched
as they surge from
home
to
home

Where will this take us now?
Is it us who outruly guiding us as we march dramaticly to the next room?
Will it be us who slams the door shut, or will we be boxed in with some automatic door opening and closing as more and more people come right in? Will we move along romanticing every little acomplishment we do, or will we morbidly and silently stubble on as we are poked and proded to keep moving? Will we finally rest as we see fit, or will we be told we have done enough? We all can easily anwser this in a way most people would generaly. We could stubernly and pridefuly declare that nothing shakles and moves us from one feeding trough to the next. We could so easily be just another rebel with a hollow cause that eagerly awaits to rip open the binds of all those around him, and finally take his spot in the limelight of respect and admirition. We can continue to dream and strive to be the philisophical moses of our generation, and lead our fellow brothers and sisters into a time where we all walk at our own pase, we all slam the doors we ourselves opened, and take any path we wish to travel in a way we feel best suits us. We could all be the one to hold on to the chains, or let the cattle go, but all of us are simply black sheep. So again I ask, who? I do not know, but I non the less seek an anwser.
Where will this take us now?

yes, I said, I am indeed a line,
a line with twists and turns;
but just because I'm not a straight line
doesn't justify these burns

or these scars upon my wrists,
the bruises by my eyes
at least I've never blended in
told all my 'friends' those lies -

yes, I know you don't really feel it -
the hatred towards my line -
mine may be curvier, angular, more 'bent' than yours
but that's no reason to whine

at me, for imagine this,
one day it might be different, changed.
I could be the normal, 'straight' one
and you could be the

Estranged

so, I said, draw your line,
and be careful with your mark.
for the person whose line one day crosses it
may have in theirs an arc.

sometimes
i read my own writing
and wonder what it's like to know me

hoping the words will open a window
let the clean air in
so i can climb through the frame
inspect the damage, avoid
the broken glass
turn on the lights

wishing the words would be more straightforward
yes and no
black and white
this is how you feel
deal with it

well, i feel done with dealing with it
in monochrome, shades of grey
stealing away the colours
of a cartoon landscape
i think that this would be easier dealt with
if i could see it all through stained glass
diamond-shaped panes
breaking up the scene, shattering
the illusions unseen
and through rose-coloured glasses
black and white become so much more obvious
to my strained, searching eyes

sometimes
i read my own simple, twisted writing
and i wonder what it's like to know me
not the words, not the straight lines
that curve around my soul
but the soft ones
that make up my body, that protect
my smile and my eyes
and the ones that lead gently down to my hands
twisting around each other
in some dance
that attempts to hide the constant urge
to write out my disbelief in the existence
of myself

yes and no
still escape me
but i keep finding shards of stained glass
like a treasure hunt, like some accidental quest
picking them up from the damp sidewalk
discovering them cutting into an open palm
and i take them, then accept the offered hand
looking off into the sunset
through the bright blue and blood-red
of sharp reality

sometimes
i find the words
before they find me