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sit by the river bend come along, child sleep where the river bends the wind murmurs and the sea splits and i guess this is where i had my first kiss
pretty as a flower dainty little thing withered by the hour, & never seen again.
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what if our bones sprouted wings made of ash, and flew away?
i wish people would learn to appreciate more, like the way there aren't any words to describe something so beautiful and the way the rain follows, and we're all just a world beneath the umbrella. it's not so bad to step out and get wet every now and then is it? they say i have the mind and soul of a writer; i wish i could write better. sometimes it's hard to appreciate how the whole world is blue and the sky's only just so vast, and the way we're all drenched in a pretty shade of -- perhaps, cobalt. have you ever seen thunder?
we're all just a color, a patch of a robin's egg and i think it's really romantic, the way a pen splutters and persists before finally dying out. it's sticky and humid but there are people stepping outside of their homes to be a part of their daily routines, some staying out and sitting, maybe to appreciate the beauty? the puddles swim along, small crowns and kingdoms as they float and bob and every time lightning strikes, i wait for the thunder. it's a little gray, the world i mean -- and the umbrellas twirl and twirl and the rain becomes a needle, striking the earth -- i wish i could say that i am as beautiful as the world is when it rains but no one watches me when i cry. no one admires the way my voice breaks, and i wish the people in cars would step out for just a moment or so to see how absolutely lovely their neighborhood can be.
my bones jut against each other, knees dimpled, and i think the rain looks very much like bulletholes in the light; they strike, and they dot the ground with white -- i don't know how to describe it, but i think they look like flowers. a bouquet, a gift that mother nature has given us to appreciate -- yet we carry umbrellas and wish for it all to end. i can only think of you and i wish i could hold your hand. you'll not understand the way my chest aches a little and i wish on stars for you and you'll never know how i want you to hold me and make me feel like i'm okay and that i'm not such a bad person and you're so warm and i never want to let go of your hands, ever. sirens wail and i wonder what has happened. who has the rain claimed?
will anyone else ever understand how to love the way the rain beats against roofs, and garbage lids, and the ground? -- the night is drawing near. the sky is dimming, and i think i'll wait until it is no longer so light a shade of blue to return home. i think watching the rain at night and writing until you can no longer see the words you've written is a wonderful thing. i think the way everything blurs out at night is gorgeous, and i tink the rain deserves to be titled as the princess. i wonder how many children are afraid of the darkness. i think water, itself, is something that humans will never learn how to live with.
i think there's something incredibly romantic in the way not even words can describe something that takes your breath away. i think it's amazing, how your mind blanks sometimes and you become a better person. i adore the way it feels when you forget something -- and it's just beyond your reach -- but no matter how hard you try to grasp it, you get nowhere, and it goes everywhere else. there's something about the way handwritings are that define a person, and as the sky fades into a dim purple, more lights blink out and more people withdraw and go to sleep -- and there's something about the way you can't see lightning without thinking about thunder or the way you can't hear thunder without imagining lightning. there's something about the way the mind thinks of all the scenarios when there are expectations, and i think it's marvelous the way there are words to describe things that don't exist.
there's something so beautiful in absolutely everything, even the heartwrenching fear that leaves you quivering, and i think that it's alright for people to be bad sometimes. the sky has become a gentle hue of violet, lavender perhaps, and honestly all i want is you. i don't know how long anything will last -- but there's something tragic about how much we all don't know, isn't there? someone once told me that feelings don't exist; feelings are only just chemicals. i don't know how i can expect myself to believe that. how can he explain the way i don't feel sometimes by saying that science dominates all? our creativity, our imaginations -- there's something more to them than simply molecules and atoms.
i think listening to the rain is utterly beautiful and i wish i could sit in the forest and listen to the silence create noise. i want to listen to the way there's nothing, and i'd sit -- anywhere -- and close my eyes and everything around me would be so, so beautiful. i think writers, poets, have the most tortured souls, for they are the ones with eons upon eons of stories and worlds crammed into their eyes that they want the rest of the world to see -- yet the rest of the world refuses to see it, and instead envision a paradise of their own. the shadows are thin and made of paper and i think i'll go back inside now.
the world has become purple and the clock has swung around long enough for the world to tilt. i think i'll go back in now, and i think i'll forget how to breathe.
i tucked your letters between my bones and when i heard the branches scrape against my window at night i wondered if the envelopes were still sealed shut i licked them so they'd stick, but i'm still not sure
i folded your promises against hurried whispers murmured between phases of our dreams i wondered if you kept everything that reminded you of me
(or did you toss me out of your life, like i tried to rid you from mine?)
we used to be, before our bones exploded into a billion stars and our words became dust -- i never knew what oblivion could be until i met you. rebirthed, the cherubs became wings of gas and toxic and they curled and curled and not even the holes in the universe can replace what you’ve left in me, for me to hold -- only just a collision of smoke and colors and semicolons that punctuate fragments of sentences, fragments of me. a phoenix rises from death, resurrected and living once more and the only thing that has ever been is the magnification of the galaxies, the light glowing and glowing in gold -- like a christmas tree that bows down and the fire has been doused. stars blink, disappear and vanish in a cloud, and what i don’t ever realize is that the spine of the universe has already been bent, broken, shattering into bleached rags of paper. the future is still a few lightyears away for me to catch -- too fast, too fast -- but i’ve always been chasing after everything and everyone else so perhaps the tips of my fingers can reach reach reach and fall and be swallowed by the onyx rivers shimmering beneath supernovas that have already been twisted into the shape of your smile.
sonic flames rise and lift and they fall in love with the twinkling of the constellation and i look at it and i see only the portrait of your eyes -- they’re so beautiful. we stole flowers from the garden of eden and utopia is devoid of paradise in our minds; the petals shrivel and wither and we used to be tucked between the musky pages of old books and words and stories that don’t make sense to anyone but ourselves and we used to fall asleep in the snow, hair sprinkled with whitened ash and when i take a step back from you, the world is only just another drop of sweet, sweet candy.
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he's a wisp of smoke in the air
the clouds billow from his lips and treasure is found in the way he speaks, gold rolling off the tip of his tongue with each gruff syllable murmured. his eyes are lazy as they flicker about and the cigarette burns between his fingers. he taps at the end. the ashes fall.
he's made of paper and his words are written in ink
they call him a story, they say he's a fairytale, and children believe him. he's the pearl, and he's the incandescent twinkle their eyes reflect when they see beauty for only the naive, only chaste & only the innocent can know -- can appreciate -- what, truthfully, "beauty" is, for their worlds are still so infected with good.
don't grow up
he's peterpan just as he's all the princesses and he's the princes shaped in young girl's minds with that charming smile captured in their hearts. floating through memories, floating through the imaginations of all those dear -- it's only a matter of time until slowly, slowly, he becomes the wisp of smoke and as the cigarette burns out, he drifts into the atmosphere and vanishes
i walk along frozen grounds the snow melts by my feet and from the twinkling of laughter that pools against my ankles kisses the tips of my toes and even the veins running through
the rain falls through the sky plummets from clouds falls, falls, falls and stipples the lake crowned by a hundred droplets (spontaneously) and there's only the sound of feet slapping against the wet asphalt
(hurry, hurry!)
tell me you love the rain the storm pours through tell me you love the snow it's cold outside, babe tell me you love the weather you're a liar
tell me you love me i don't believe you, either
there's a little red bell down by the sea bobbing along the shoreline, it beckons for me
twinkling with the glory of the sky, strung in cobalt jewels i think they're robin eggs- it must take me for a fool
the ocean whispers against the sand with much fervor the little red bell rides the waves against each murmur
the hurricane washes over the land in a storm like a tornado, it's destructive, and in the morning, i mourn
never more shall the laughter resound encased in red, the beauty is found
i thought i lost it the other day the ring you gave me as a promise in may
there's a little red bell down by the sea and bobbling along the shoreline, i am freed.
