In the name of You for whom my blood bleeds
This slight blizzard, teasing my weather to loosen up a bit
But what I found has been blurred and brought back to me
In this confusion
My limits outstretched, false hope dangles. Maybe these walls represent the bland, in us, in it all. Can I use this for my advantage? What is self-interest, but a dying man profiting from all the visits, all the crumbs left after tea for the floor to sweep. For the mop to clean frank dismay. It’s been a year. It’s been a fucking year.
Never contemplated it. Figured there’s way more to ruin in ourselves before ruin is brought to us. Pain exclusive. The boy kicked out of class for fidgeting too much with his pen, can now turn your world upside down, with just a blink.
But you’re still shameless. You rub the chalk before they sense the screech. You drag on the wood but it’s your burden that stays. A marble you toss on a moving staircase…path of pride, circular shapes sure are funny, ain’t they? No side to corner, every reflection: yours.
And then I think about what I just wrote and who’d read it. About how I can’t be bothered to edit.
Order such chaos. Would you fucking get it?
It’s alright, I mean. I’m supposed to get it, write it, talk it, walk it. Screwed up by this order. Let’s just say I’ve walked it, gotten it till I lost it, could barely get my message across had I talked it, but whenever I write it
I don’t know
I’m still. The world happens. But the world inside my head happens for me as I question my entire being and look like a lost, bent over, fleer of war for a word that’ll not make these bombs detonate as I stand on a landmine. Enduring every.single.fucking.day.pre.and.post.this.bloody.minute. Where I wait as it all comes back to me and I wonder why I ever signed up for this shit.
And no alpha infront or omega behind will get flustered for anything past his poor life to watch out for. Yesterday was for me and tomorrow will probably be for you but who’s got to explain as of today to someone who needs to wake up and see it for what it is?
And as a thousand images flash like a cassette stuck for being played in the wrong time. I pick the images that stuck and let my giddy gaze form a sentence or two, in this dim frame of mind. What I could’ve said, what it all meant.
And then a stranger takes on, and writes another sentence off of that, elsewhere. All individualistic, of course. Your pain does not precede mine. Your imagination is second hand.
Why so sour, honey? I have mended to your stretch marks, your shade, your scars. I have counted the spaces in your hair as the sun pierced through it and set my eyes ablaze, for wanting to, shelter you in me.
Two utility bottles tripped over some trivialities and bowed in the same 45 degree angle. Does that mean we look the same if struggling with, the exact same, catastrophe? Or should we finally give due credit to gravity, for letting us feel more than we should because the lighter the heart, the easier it is to flee to its whereabouts.
I can’t write more.
Maybe that’s why books have numberings and pages have word limits. Because. If you take all the trips it needs, to come to a conclusion of a final thought, you wouldn’t ever write it down.
You’d throw that draft out the window.
As of all the others that didn’t make the cut.
Because, who’d be insane enough to write this?
I fucking won’t.
Or I’ll break again.
“But it is in the breaking that you’ll find your strength, my friend”
Bury it all with me.
Make me the enemy, take your revenge.
I’ll be here.
All the way…