Some days, you think you can figure it all out, you know… Find answers to still unasked questions Some days. Sometimes, you think you know. Even when you’re having difficulty distinguishing thought from feeling. And those days seem easier. Limbo, while “free-spirited” really is no fun. It restrains you, from control; leaves you inquiring . . . about your very own life, So why? Why then do you struggle to create your way, instead of finding it? Why, then, is the grass equivalently green – or not so? Which is worse, and what’s the difference? Some days you drown yourself in the residual waters of disappointment To avoid the purified droppings of hope . . . because . . . Hope, is an unasked question. and you’re still searching. seeking. Answers.
Twenty two years ago I already knew I’d run to you. Love. I didn’t know I’d be running from, too. Who keeps teaching us that we need relationships to accentuate our greatness? How are we to define ourselves when we are constantly looking for someone else to help conceptualize us? I’m not chasing, anymore, and yet shorty you keep swinging my way. When my hugs stared in your eyes and the vibrations of my chords grabbed your soul you didn’t know if we were music or noise. you asked me to show you but your lips dance all day. take your headphones off so you may see. chose the lavish. so we’re the latter. now. and grass don’t even grow there. My falsetto moonwalks at the tip of my tonsil when it grips the idea of you. You who asked me to teach you visual-kinesthetically but closed your ears to see me. Can you not feel the raspiness begging for clarity? I was stutter step chasing while you square danced around me. Now my falsetto can rest as …
Can the son not just melt your leaves into potpourri? Make the scent of your love last two steps closer to forever. Flowers are nice. But the 500 alarm and 1800 hours return home don’t afford me the 62 drips it takes to feed you, and keep your petals erect. Your needs and my time speak with different dialects. They’d frame it lack of trying that in just days you’re dying but I swear it ain’t neglect, so I’m asking. Please. Transform. ‘For a rose by any other name still smells as sweet.’ I beg the scent of your love to last closer to forever. Don’t deny the son’s rise. May He melt your leaves into potpourri.
It’s not you – My expectations are sky escaping. They stand upon their pointe, tip-toed scraping Disappointment. The lions and tigers I bear in my chest as I realize I’m not high. Feeling every claw clinch upon my breath, I fear the possibility that it’s my breast… …not the hearts in eyes that paint the truest image of who I am inside my chest that holds your interest. IF I could keep my head when all about me tornadoed believing the world is just fine without me, It would be… …But it isn’t. -it’s not me, Either.