the stars, the sea, and sleep.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010


This is critical hopelessness,
Belting out every frequency
Burning up every colored flame
M'aidée! M'aidée!
A May's day is too far away...
I'm throwing up cartridges
Hoping that they'd stay as satellites,
But this world is constant to the ground
And these stringless kites fall back down
Directionless and hollow,
So all that is left is the echoing sound
Of the optimist's tomb.

There is no flash, just the ghost of a boom
As the diary pages scatter about the room
And the dates on the entries cave in
And he looks in the mirror,
How he could have saved him.
Dressed up pretty by himself
With watery eyes and a water mouth.

Can you hear me?
Can you be dear to me as I've been dear to you
For I have feared for you in myself?
Your name is a bitter untamed melody
Of irony and iron fillings
From the bittersweet company of this life
In which I both lead and am led on.

No more sunlight today.
No more open door,
No more room to say
Nothing new that needs to be said.
Nothing grew that isn't now dead
Nothing flew that hasn't yet fled.
No one knew that this world could breathe
And take away yours with nothing in return.
And you bleed for what you need
While your lungs begin to burn,
Then it starts all over with a new approach to learn.

So if practice makes perfect,
Perfection I do not want to know
As much as I don't want to care,
And these words lose their weight
Because nobody's there to be cared for.
I did not ask for these sorrows on my chest
But at best, I've been given more.

This loss is non-conservative
And my greatest concern is that this is the truth.
This is the mistake that takes up all my youth
And if so, may I be saved from what I don't know.
God, let it be known, before I've grown too much more
And these cycling Fields grow as rank as before.

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