Sunday, May 24, 2009

they were always to cool to run my race..

Have you ever read one of those stories? One of those poems? The sad ones. You know what I’m talking about. The ones that make you regret and wonder what you’ve done with your life.
I don’t like them. Never have, never will. I write them though. They just happen. I can’t help it… I hate it when they come out. They’re terribly sad. What’s worse is I don’t have anything to be sad about.

Well, no. I do have things, but they’re not that bad. I want to quit writing the ones that scream “Woe is me!” That’s not what I want to be, That’s not who I am. I want to make people laugh, Not cry. Not think. Not sigh…
I can’t keep them hidden though. I can’t write them and lock them away. They are part of me, no matter what I say. It’s lying to pass them over.Maybe I write them because I haven’t found myself.When I do, I hope I’m happy.
It is difficult to make out the words because it’s not you and me, it’s just me. It is about my mind drawn in a blue sky, and my window sill blistering because of it. It is about staring down ten stories and seeing animal eyes painted on the pavement, bleeding and crying and moaning like something inside me, like the reek of greenhouses and cow shit inside my room.

Even if I close my eyes, I picture spring devouring crows’ feet and pickled eggs sticking to my window, where those branches scrape like an old friend, except trees don’t grow this high, so it’s all in my mind, you see. It is about this pen and this paper andten stories I can’t stare down.
I am beyond finding rainbows out here, in the sludge of yesterday’s rain, where every stone bench, and even the green of the grass, is covered in pigeon shit. This town is like a crowd, like a monster from the worst parts of us, in time to place you at the head and me at the foot gazing up from the tower to the sun-burnt sky.
Must there be a mutual understanding that I will never see you again, if we are part of the same body of wistful thinking that we can do something significant here? Your palms are thirty, forty, six hundred and twenty two meters away, but I can feel them resting against the hollow of your neck stretching for anybody else against you,And I am counting the stars on the other side of the world or something like it, knowing full well that half of them probably died millions of years ago, with your lips against the white of my knuckles.
And I don’t even bother to remove the staples from the pre-recycling curling inward like clustered fetuses because I’m secretly screaming at them never to let go. I wish I could call sunsets black or white and leave it at that, but these fingers against my temple are not my own, leaking out my ideas and dreams. My tongue never bites back, but every muscle in my body recoils against the slap of a door closing or a shoulder turning the blind eye or deaf ear, or cocked in your throat,
Do you know the hardest— battle we fight is barely tasting the edge of tomorrow, and having to go it alone. And Remember, in elementary school when it was safe to give Valentine’s cards with “I love you” and “Won’t you be my Valentine?” to other boys because they didn’t have cooties?

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