friend, split your company,
find your judgement there.
Listen to the conversation,
find some static closely.
Piecing together Heaven when choosing is failing you.
When your brain was sick and your body
catching up to your doubts. I said hello to you.
Isn't this choosing,
when you can?
Pray with tearing hands.
Own your paper cuts.
Existing was never a fairytale. Amusing
every sentence like death and death
can be an ending without a better closure.
Performing backwards, love.
Creating a different time in the same time.
Preparing your tongue for words that
won't come out naturally because it's easy.
Hovering, for this world is shallow, fragile now.
Transparent as you see under it, through it,
before it with no conclusion but you feel
like a discoverer at your highest point.
This was today, tomorrow only you know.
Separate love to make love. Cleaning your
fingerprints when it struggles. Smothering
until life runs from it, soaking your clothes
with its sweat. Drenching you with your
own guilt, but it's committing to you, for you,
with you. Smearing the proof that you tried
too hard. That love is sorry.
Oh God, it's like suicide. Committing, destroying,
then it's a loss; soothe it, breathe it air, and let it go.
Leave it alone. Chase the bed you made and lay in it.
Isn't this choosing?
Be the coma to make any difference.
Deluding love with attempts and
developing confusion from illusions,
then wandering back to the flaws,
welcomed to ignore so easily by you.
When your hands didn't feel like yours
emptying Heaven, I said hello.
This is choosing.
Own your paper cuts.
YOU ARE READING
dirt & human
PoetryThis collection has the dirt for my grave and my soul for God but when it rains there's meaning for my muddy heart. (Some of the poems are older and published already, I moved them to this collection, so if you recognize a poem that's why.)
