sometimes i think
about everything i could be
and the way the rain trickles against puddles
i need to look at the small oceans
lining dusty pathways
to reassure myself that the storm is still breathing,
still exhausted
by the waste it excretes. the sky
is clouded with --
-- with ash (it's metallic)
and i swear i can taste it
like blood, like iron
like cruel, unforgiving hands holding each other without ever
ever letting go.
it must be so terribly sad to say goodbye
i'd never imagine anyone thinking it to be
something
to be
celebrated?
i'd never
the stars burnt my lips when i tried to kiss them
and the moon bit my fingertips when i tried to hold her
it all aches --
dull, throbbing --
i welcome it.
the sore reminds me of who i am.
this world is filled with synonyms and ink marks and pens and writing and words --
it's a wonder how everyone seems to simply disregard
disregard everything
and focus on trivial details
why do they feed thunder to the clouds above their heads?
why do they kill themselves over something of the past?
i think it's how they choose to manage
their guilt
and their
conscience
it's pretty pathetic.