kerry (makethiscount) wrote,

being myself.

 they tell me to move my fingers and i know that it's in me but i don't want it out. they tell me to grip the pen and let things fall out, let the ink do it. let the ghosts voices. i know the indents on the pages cannot make a dent, i know they cannot breathe. how can something breathe if it isn't alive? they are something though, these words, they are somewhere before i write them on the lines. it is as if they are trapped inside the carbons of the paper, once a tree. it once stood heroically in a cerulean forest and had a place in the dirt and friends in the leaves and small creatures on it's branches. and they expect me to beat this? i cannot make you happy.

the souls of words are sleeping in me, my heartbeat lullabies.

 i want to shake their bodies, open up their eyes. they cannot always hear me.

there are echoes in my lungs and love letters in my blood flow. they are written to no one. they are written to you. he writes poems about cities that i dream up at night, i tell him, "i am  no one" and he makes wrinkles near his eyes with the curving upward of his lips.  i tell him i want life to be dark and clear and free. like sticking your head out of windows to smoke joints, looking down and everywhere. 

and if you borrowed all of my dreams could you write these things down? would you mind waking up with the shakes, cold sweat -- if this would give you words? 

tell me when the streets are empty and the air holds horror, where will we go? when the world gives us notice, that it has had enough, when it holds us responsible, who will you be holding on to? because the street signs will disappear and nothing in your world will matter, the faces of the shocked and dying will pass you by like birds wings, flash. this is not something you are ready for. it is not something i can take. 

  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded