Between The Lines

Ah, my dearest world, I love the way you move round and round. So continuous. Continuously bitter, so continuously alive, showing all of us that one must follow your example. One must go on despite the treachery of continuity. There are no no breaks in the circling; and you will continue to continue.
Don’t we all wish, world, you’d stop. Beg you’d one day realize we are not made the same way. Our gravity does not, as yours does, cause us to last ever spinning. Our gravity regretfully holds us to you, so that we are forced to continue with you; though our souls are dizzy from the ever seeming spinning.
But no - you will not give us this answer. You will continue, won’t you? As you, my dear, always do. Continuously the teacher of how to be so simply continuous.

You see, you poor thing, when everything’s in pieces it’s easier to point out what’s missing. So calm yourself and take a gander. Look at the ruins in which you left yourself, dear. You have no one to blame. It was you who stopped beating. You who chose to let go. But do not let the guilt slow you, keep inspecting; look at those parts. Look at the sum of yourself, heart. You are broken but where you ever whole? Did you ever notice you skipped a beat or were you too busy trying to keep a perfectly melancholy rhythm to hear the emptiness within that second? Well now that you’re shreaded, you kindly killed thing, memorize your faults. Watch as everything you consisted of turns to ash and realize there was once a flame. It’s easier that way, sad heart. So you can see the missing piece, that which you’ll never have the puzzle to again. Funny isn’t it; you had both. You held the piece within yourself and all the while you searched elsewhere. Now, you have misery. Misery and the key to a door which has been melded shut. And only now that you have died, you poor little thing, you see that which was missing was never really gone.

I’ve faced your kind

Once or twice before

But I’ve never turned

To look you in the eye

It would take too much

So I allow you to hover

Over my shoulder

I only ask one thing

Do not loom over my coffin

Meet me in hell

Where I’ll face you eternally

I’m exhausted

           mentally

              emotionally

                 physically

                   spiritually

exhausted

The left side of a chest does not feel; leave that to the left side of a brain. An organ cannot break, but bones may. A pump does not call one to another, those are attractions caught by the eyes. So please explain why a heart symbolizes love? When finger tips and soft lips send the message? When stomachs are what knot, and tounges twist and swell? When hairs stand on end and skin becomes taught? Why must a heart be involved, when a heart does not love.

I remember the summer

When the sun was brightest

The days burned with passion

But slowly, the winds picked up

And the leaves began to fall

As hard as I had;

As light as a feather.

Trees died, as did we

The cold began to spread

My bones ached

And now, bitter cold nights

Welcome even colder days

But soon enough it will rain

To wash the sear of June from my skin

And the white pain will melt

There will be flowers

Beauty will once again envelop my world

Oh how I’ll miss the summer,

But spring will do just fine.

Another you shall come

And bring the sun

They, too, will turn to fall

And my heart will become winter

Reminiscing on June.

But, spring alone will do just fine

Just take me to the place where I can feel small. Where everything is absolutely outrageous and there is no such thing as a half effort. Take me where the lights never go off. Here, I’m awake and everything else sleeps; I feel so out of place. Take me where it smells of exhaust and broken dreams so that I know I’m not the only one. Leave me where there are so many people that I can see new faces everyday; and my own can be marked simply as one of those. Where the crowds are so enormous I can lose myself and still feel accompanied. I can look around and no two people are the same and by being different we are all equals. So I can look up and see passion in every eye. Not having your own dream is outrageous there. I can rely on the kindness and brutal honesty of strangers. Take me to where the magic happens every second, so I can create or destroy and never be frowned upon. I fit in there, not here. Just take me to New York City, and leave me.

My words could be daggers,

if my lips chose to speak pain.

But something chokes me

with its constant beating;

reminding me

of the little things.

And with every thud

in my temples,

the guilt slips further.

The race ends once my lips part

and once again,

I’m last.

The price I pay

for having a heart

bigger than my fists.

I am incapable of understanding the obsession with “happy.” Being happy, finding happy, living happy.. Why? No one would ever know happy if they have never met sad. Or mad. Or dissapointed. Without those, happy would be nonchalant. Melancholy is not any near happy. So where is there a rule that says happy must be. No:  ire is, discouraged is, and uninspired is too. But without those, there would be no happy. No joyful, no energetic, and no flippant either.

If one had never been dissapointed, how dare they say they understand fullfillment? If one had never been hearbroken, how would they know the joy of love? If one cannot grasp being so sad they would like to stop, how would they comprehend living happy?

Learn to appreciate sad. Don’t ignore it, or you’ll take happy for granted. Happy is not all there is.

You see,

Its hard

Worrying, caring, feeling

for you and her

for she and he

for him and we

and us and they

and I and me

and you

So I am going

to stick with just me

If thats okay

with you and they

with she and I

and them and us

and you