Talking to Myself (Again)

One day I took off my glasses
and opened up my eyes inside a side
of a universe I didn’t get to choose,
I didn’t get to paint melancholy hues
yet they simmer like burning sunsets
against these lips - like arguments falling
out of my voice box with flowers
plucked and left on the ground.

I used to be good at running races.
The gun would pop and I ran down blocks
only to trip and fall, to pick myself off the ground,
and pick my scabs and pick a plan to become home-bound,
and as I get older I shiver in arctic splendor
because the only company I keep are depressed benders.
They never tell you as time surrenders
these happy days become lost in the view
as if this verse falls like dew to the pasture,
as we are fallen angels waiting for the rapture.
I am consumed by days of shrugged whatevers,
but I have moments; subtle moments
when I step outside of my own being,
outside my pain, outside control, outside the bullshit,
out of mind, out of sight, out of rage,
outside the need to get it, get it, you’ll never get it,
so I swallow thoughts like this every day.

The real question lingers.
With which stars will my heart break free
from an open sky, with which rivers
that never reach the sea?
Kind words cost nothing,
yet we were raised with expensive taste.
Maybe that is why whenever
my eyes meet yours so soft
as a falling star crashing inside
my rose tinted atmosphere,
I become suffocated by your gravity --  aflame --
burning my lips swimming my palms
racing my heartbeat spinning my head --
my head spins as I collide
with your charming glance,
and for an instant of light
I pull myself away and slip off
inside comforting darkness
where you can’t see your fire
trailing behind me, like
the tail of a trickling comet.

Because as I am around you, I feel new flesh.
Maybe this is the joy of unrequited love;
for a love that only exists inside my chest
will never carry a heaviness so weighty
that pulls my skeleton, buries limp,
dragging memories of a heart’s lazy attempt
to ever believe I actually have a shot,
like a child too lazy to sweep properly.

So I leave you with a toast for two,
one for you while holding someone's hand;
one for myself while roaming thirsty, dry lands.
One beer, and one water for a waste of upcoming years,
and I hope you get fucked so hard your bones
leave an imprint of the hotel’s mattress
and the next guests cannot sleep.

I’ve been writing these verses
and spray paint them against
transport trucks, so if you never know
I loved you, people across the province
will know you escaped me
like a first breath after a coma.
As human nature reminds me
that man spends lifetimes
looking for a listening ear,
but judgement is something feared,
so I end up talking to myself (again).

More importantly, I hope your love writes you a better poem than this.

Reviews

[UnholyFate]

For me, this set a very intense mood. The imagery was was great. The words were intricately woven together. I enjoyed this piece.