To the One who Almost Got it Right & Viewfinder

I wrote these a while ago, and decided to put them up now..


To the One Who Almost Got it Right
i can make you dizzy and write you poems. i can make you breakfast at midnight. i can appreciate monet and graffiti and saxophones and bongos. and if i could have it my way, life would consist of falling alseep on public park benches in couture gowns and watching city-lights blink patterns around me. non-alcoholic teaparties on balconies with fascinating individuals and never knowing what time of day it is. but none of that is what i broadcast. concepts such as these don't fit comfortably anywhere in my life- thus you are more likely to hear about how crazy i am.

telling the truth is not at all the same as telling everything. you know nothing of me because i am unreachable. at my centre, where the incessant drumming of my pulse echoes, words collapse onto each other naturally. they collide and crumble and contradict and live within me. paper will not coax them out, my throat and tongue will not combine to publish them. they crowd around the edges of my lips and escape into bubbles of gum...snap, and they're released into the air. you never hear them. they sink to the bottom of the drink i blow bubbles in. they fly from eyelashes after every blink and float up above the windows of skyscrapers. at times, they can be found between alleys and boulevards where my shoes have stepped and most certainly they exist in that millisecond when traffic lights change colours and i'm neither stopped nor moving nor waiting to stop or move.

if you want to know me as i really am, you have to lean in close and listen at five a.m. when the world is still and i am uncensored by the static of ordinary conversation. i cannot be ordinary. and i cannot settle for ordinary or handle ordinary. because somewhere there is the faint echo of fireworks and everyday is spent trying to find their source.



Viewfinder
dark rooms lit by powerless thoughts
the mind of a genius works best under a new moon
a permanent illumination causes for breakdowns in thoughts and sights
and minds
only genius when forced awake and kept asleep
what you search for, dear miss,
is mystery
and you find it in the shadows of those swept away by it all
soft sheets and cold sweaty bathroom tiles
this game of mimic with ourselves and one another
i long for the simplicity of a touch or a ladybug on my shoulder
but i feel nothing instead
a dull sense of pain that lurks behind every broken glance and watered down promise
you, sweet girl, are no longer yourself
and only an outline, blurred by the city lights.
we spoke of dreams, this girl and i, and how she'd lost them in her heart
i told her not to fret but she turned away and escaped into the night
frozen by the daylight, she squints her eyes at the sky, naturally brighter and higher than she will ever feel
incapable of being loved by those she looks to
there is understanding in dulling the pain
there is nothing she can do in fabricating pleasure
traveling in a void
screaming in a busy stairwell
i wondered how long i would tell her to wait
so i told her i understood and i told her to just be
and she said,
stop trying
its not worth the wasted words