music: foolish games - jewel
mood: looped.
at 6,
i could not hold still
the images in my head.
gliding and looping
in infinity spirals
through
still slick
sick-green halls.
i sought to fix them
with crayons
in hand and
stories in my head
impatient to learn stillness,
i ran,
through reckless possibilities
wrecking tranquility.
at 14,
i realized
i was not being watched.
mind, motions,
the essence of my life,
fly past neverland
into castles in the air; while
sliding past quiet chaos
one year hence.
i plundered language.
i incanted each instance,
i spoke every second.
i sought permanence in my dreams.
desperate to
establish reality,
i became a perfekt description
of everything i wanted me to be.
at 16,
i was frustration.
hopeless believing
of everything perfekt
under streetlights
and in pouring rain,
i'll remember you
and in the starlit sunlight,
i'll remember us.
recursive thinking;
raw feeling. reeling me back
steeped in
pink hue of scarlet black haze
suddenly tired of ceaseless fun.
enough stories.
i want. i want to.
*i live stories
enough tripping over holes
i want. i want-ed to fall
in strange grey matter.
i suspected the best stories
are those shared
in both the making
and telling.
i sat,
seeking joy
with an open hand.
eager with a semi-stitched heart on pedestal
and i seeked to fall.
at 19,
pretty pictures on the walls
after hopes and eyes rose to fall
universe of stars and i count them all
holding hands in winter and on that hill
i swallowed a star for each lie i told.
flabberghast as much ignorance much
tarnished moon and chance as russian roulette
become the only life's touch
at 21,
after hopes and eyes lost and met
so i grapple for sanity
rationality, sensibility, totality -
silences;
they only sounded lies. after lies.
lucid truth and there is none
recursive thinking;
raw feeling. un-picked heart
to paint clarity over still stupidity
oh how easy it is to uncover conviction
today, when I wrote this,
i count backwards
on my fingers,
it does,
it did not matter.
now:
who I am,
i was,
and where i am going.
i have too many perspectives
and interests.
there is too much to do.
both past and present
slide off into
grey abstraction:
under the street lights
in waters as stars fall
a momentary epiphany
of kissing above melted sulphur
on still waters
and to be told
a story once told
by a stranger.
i could not hold still
the images in my head.
gliding and looping
in infinity spirals
through
still slick
sick-green halls.
i sought to fix them
with crayons
in hand and
stories in my head
impatient to learn stillness,
i ran,
through reckless possibilities
wrecking tranquility.
at 14,
i realized
i was not being watched.
mind, motions,
the essence of my life,
fly past neverland
into castles in the air; while
sliding past quiet chaos
one year hence.
i plundered language.
i incanted each instance,
i spoke every second.
i sought permanence in my dreams.
desperate to
establish reality,
i became a perfekt description
of everything i wanted me to be.
at 16,
i was frustration.
hopeless believing
of everything perfekt
under streetlights
and in pouring rain,
i'll remember you
and in the starlit sunlight,
i'll remember us.
recursive thinking;
raw feeling. reeling me back
steeped in
pink hue of scarlet black haze
suddenly tired of ceaseless fun.
enough stories.
i want. i want to.
*i live stories
enough tripping over holes
i want. i want-ed to fall
in strange grey matter.
i suspected the best stories
are those shared
in both the making
and telling.
i sat,
seeking joy
with an open hand.
eager with a semi-stitched heart on pedestal
and i seeked to fall.
at 19,
pretty pictures on the walls
after hopes and eyes rose to fall
universe of stars and i count them all
holding hands in winter and on that hill
i swallowed a star for each lie i told.
flabberghast as much ignorance much
tarnished moon and chance as russian roulette
become the only life's touch
at 21,
after hopes and eyes lost and met
so i grapple for sanity
rationality, sensibility, totality -
silences;
they only sounded lies. after lies.
lucid truth and there is none
recursive thinking;
raw feeling. un-picked heart
to paint clarity over still stupidity
oh how easy it is to uncover conviction
today, when I wrote this,
i count backwards
on my fingers,
it does,
it did not matter.
now:
who I am,
i was,
and where i am going.
i have too many perspectives
and interests.
there is too much to do.
both past and present
slide off into
grey abstraction:
under the street lights
in waters as stars fall
a momentary epiphany
of kissing above melted sulphur
on still waters
and to be told
a story once told
by a stranger.
