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Max Jones Jan 2013
if you asked me to define love, i would run so far that not even the moon could hear the whispering in my bones

and i know it's not a wordless song but i don't know what to feel.
i know there is a needle in your heart,
and a letter that's forever sealed,
but i like you.
you can play my thoughts like a violin on fire,
and you know the path that never ends unless you were to conspire
a way to die without making a mess.

and maybe i never make sense with the flower stem questions and my map of comparisons
but i won't go claim innocence to thoughts that seem to linger
until your heart says, "hey,
slow down."

but a feather's still a feather,
whether it stays on a bird or falls free.

and maybe i'm a dysfunctional robot and you can't fix me
but god i want to wear your smile
and save you from the journeyless destinations
but it's not like that.

my mind has a rusty lock
but i wear a metal hat
and to get through the glass you need to love yourself
and i can't do that
i can't be that.

and some days i fight with voiceless ghosts for a chair that hurts my back
and maybe nothing i say will ever be fact
and maybe it's not about if you understand,
and maybe on those 'not even tea can warm my frost bitten soul' nights,
i want to hold your hand
and feel your heart beat like an electric shock right across my scratchy throat
but my loneliness is louder than the echo in my empty gut
and i scream at the thoughts bursting through my stomach like a gunshot to the soul
and the wound is a deeper cut
than the scars that are painted across my skin because of the 4:05am guilt that says "you'd rest easier in a coffin."

these words will be the wrinkles buried in my face
and maybe if you were a strawberry banana smoothie, i'd like to have a taste
but thoughts are hiding in the caves of shame and disbelief
and it's better to read STOP signs than forget to breathe.

but a feather's still a feather,
whether it stays on a bird or falls free.

(it's not good to jump the fence,
if you already have the key.)
Butch Decatoria Oct 2020
I’m the old man, and the sea is the blank page before me, journeyless Journal, a so-called life to script, “Dear diary I’m the ****...”
    Oh how shall I drown in the words beloved, absolute the depth, the breadth of one’s soul. It’s Worth... While men die never to capture immortality, legends rise while spoken as freely upon the wind, the worthwhile songs some weep to feel how the greatest love feels ...
        Life .  Like an old man upon that sea, drowning to know love. (god)

Purpose.

— The End —