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pretending @ that i'm finally free
my poems are pieces of constant inconsistencies simply stretching for a glimpse of reliability. i write about silence. (You say that i play my music too loud, and i say that if i had something other than silence to compare it to, maybe i would agree with You.) all this shallow and accidental space that surrounds me fits more firmly than the skin that squeezes itself about me. every time the scenery shifts we see a little more of ourselves in the people we don’t know. we drive and drive because we’ve got nowhere to go and nobody but each other to see, yet, we don’t actually see each other. i put periods in places where they don’t belong because otherwise some sentences would never know exactly when they were supposed to stop. i stay up late because the night knows me better than you do. i stay up late because the shadows that the moon creates on the ceiling are the kind that can alter their appearance in the passing of headlights from the highway. i chain smoke when i’m mad because the smoke scratches my throat the better than the right words would. my heart never knows what it’s wanting to say so it allows my head to say something stupid instead. usually, i’m several seconds shy of prompt. usually, i’m several shades of a really rosy red. i make a scene sometimes so i can see who’ll say what and who won’t. your eyes are alcohol; they fill me up for a minute with an immeasurable freedom and leave me sick on the bathroom floor the next. this city smells like tastelessness and i’m wedged in the center of a circle that’s really just an outline of the way things could be. you’re a connotation and a distraction and this may be the most miserable mistake i’ll ever make, but i could stand out here in line and wait for front row tickets to your attraction and end up sitting behind some girl with big hair that blocks my five foot four view no matter what time i got in line. we could catch the first bus out of here and never look back. we could climb to the top of the list of all the things i said i’d never do, and start there. we could speak up and discuss what we really feel, but like all the other things we could do, we won’t. at least not me, i’ll imagine that i do not care that i constantly compare myself to the girls who’ve got what you want. i’ll pace along the thickness of your smile and sink into myself a little more and more every time your voice sings. i’ll wash my hands and hair and we’ll go somewhere nice enough to cost too much. i’ll melt into the miles we’ve gone without actually going anywhere. you’ll remember to remind me that i made this mess, and it’s mine to make right somehow. i guess this is all senseless. i guess that sense and sensibility is just the name of a really boring book. i guess fate just leads us to wherever it is it wants us to be whenever it wants us to be there. i guess i’ve got to go get ready for work where fifty, sometimes sixty, year old men will flirt with me and i’ll smile and pretend to be an idiot with big breasts and a tight little white shirt. i guess i’ve got to go somewhere i shouldn’t so i remember why i’m here.Older Entries |
