there’s passion in pretending
there’s time together and time away
and when you take the two
totaled together
there’s a balance of blank
or empty and craving someone filling
[anything or anyone who’s willing,
who would rather make this right
then stand around and
wait for someone else to fight]
and i’m curling my cursive more and more when i write in my journal,
and
sometimes i hear myself swearing it isn’t me moving the pen, but a passion so deep and
devastating i just can’t explain it
All this build up’s been breaking its longitude against the length of my escape, i get to you
too late or too soon either way, i’m there
apathy is the greatest enemy if we don’t care what we’re seeing then we’re seeing something
other than the truth, cuz the truth moves in and out of a place that hurts and hesitates so
slightly, so symptomatically that it catches our attention and cuts through the all the lies
they’ve ever told you
every thing you do proves that you don’t know what to do, you’re everything that you said you’d
never be, with these mirrors all around me I’m constantly
tired
i wake up i get up i get out i go i come home lonelier than before with the phone that
never rings and the tv’s always on, but i can’t even see it, i keep facing the end and
thinking that there’s nothing left to do cuz everything’s been done, or said, and i keep
sliding into no one’s arms and i keep on coming up with reasons to not belong
and i hold my own, with every ounce of effort i own i got me
but please forgive what i have done i can’t go on like this if this is done
so,
it’s time to stop scratching the surface and break right through to the center stand there
in front of me the distance is harsh but i’m inconsistent and tomorrow i won’t sit still long
enough to retain reaction I’m either on my way or already there but when i get to where
you won’t even wonder when
the persuasive things tend to flicker when you feel them the most &
all the things that get stuck in my head like that time with her on the bed and her lips,
mouth greedy and hungry for the very essence of her existence to quench the throbbing
of my muscles suddenly sensitive and skin sweating with desire for her and only her and
only then did i know what it meant to want with a wetness, with an inexplicable yearning
stronger than the wind was that time it turned too cold in a car ride, and we paraded our
resistance pure like poetry, and i guess, i guess, this is stuttering through another season’s
reluctance to change, i guess this is moving more in front of my feet than backwards or
behind where i am
inevitably,
we all get tired.
