Sunday, April 3, 2011

NaPo 3 - Lunatic

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Also, I'm debating putting this in a spoken word format, so look out for that. :D


I want to tell you how I feel.

But I can’t.

I can’t because my vocal chords are tied into
figure-eights around me and I’m pulling myself to the
moon. I’m going where everythings so light that the ocean
drowning me in my chest will rise from my lips
like a ribbon of everything but regret -

I’m just trying to lift myself from all this,
writing garish letters and wearing them like
fucking peacock feathers, but I can’t use them
to fly. I’m playing callouses into the tips of my fingers
so they won’t know they have nothing to hold, cutting
reality into magazine bits and gluing ransom notes
for the side of me with jade-eyes;
I say I can’t find her,
but I know where she is -

she’s so far gone, she’s skipped the moon like a stone
on the lake of regret and she said she’s going to Pluto,
needs someone to cry with, someone who knows
from too many experiences how it feels to be told
she’s not a planet. She thinks I’m a fucking lunatic for
holding on to the Earth’s gravitational
pull, and I can only tell her “There are so many places,
all of the oceans - it’s just too beautiful.”

No, it doesn’t always make sense, you can’t
rhyme reason into risk and you can’t risk
rhymes and try to make it reasonable - I am so

I am holding on to life-lines that don’t exist, pretending
I can push and pull the sea, I can see myself,
I can see why she’s on Pluto, burying herself
in ice and rock. It must be easier to

Too bad there’s sometimes
that's impossible, too bad there's
just too much beauty.

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