Reflection
I feel
A bit guilty
Because I think
I love her
And I know
That it won’t amount
To anything more than just that

Something about us
Reminds me
Of how your lungs tighten and close
After you get the wind knocked out of you
The slit of tightened lips
That comes when it’s too much of a struggle
To do much else

It scares me
How I see him
In too many places
How I’ve come to know this man
Who began as this untouchable almost god
A fantasy
But in the end
He is more human than most

I wonder briefly
If this is how I do things
That I am always just ‘in love’
Instead of loving
That David’s right
Funny, isn’t it?
Sometimes I think
We are almost the same person

Like I am the album
He’s scratched out again and again
This person I’ve become
Constructed out of coffee stained sheet music
But it is only too often
That his creations
Are met
With endings
That leave you mouthing the same lyrics
For weeks
Praying that you will not become like that

Because he forces you to realize
Just how vulnerable we can be
Whether you’re a spaceman or a junkie off the street
But the junkie is a person too
And sometimes these things don’t let you go
I can tell you the theme of every LP he’s released since 1970
But there’s no chance in hell
I can tell you my own

So yeah
I spend too much time
sifting through myself
As if the answer
Is tucked inside
Other people’s stories
As if I could find the meaning
Buried between release dates
And what drug who did
Or something as simple
As their birth name

And I blame them
For not holding the reason
Even though
I see even now
That it is easier to ignore
How they spent their lives
Fashioning pretty portraits from dreams they couldn’t remember
And shoving their art down our throats

When really
All they wanted
Was someone to notice
How hard everything hit them
I feel that
If someone had just talked to them
Really talked
Thought to help
They would have been a little more okay
I guess it takes a while sometimes
Creating ourselves

I’m kind of scared actually
Because right now
I write a lot
And, despite how it may seem, I am living
But what if I get through all this
Only to end up
WIth days I can tick off my fingers
The only words I find fascinating
Being ones like “bills” and “paperwork”

That I stop creating things
And I’ll forget
How difficult all this is
Or the people I fell for
Or even the song I was obsessed with
For like two months
Before illegally downloading

Because as much as I keep believing
None of this matters
It does
And I don’t want it to be
Like every other adult I’ve come across
Who tell me my opinions
Aren’t actually real
Because when you’re young
My opinions don’t actually count
Even though they seem to be clearer than yours

I want to be
The neighbour in silk scarves with too loud music
With the room stacked with ink smeared pages
Who’s always got the strangest people over at late hours
I don’t want to stop becoming
To stop, period
I mean...
There has to be a point
Even if I have to make one
Even if my point is different from everyone else’s
It seems like I’ve always been like that
So I think I’ll be alright.