The choking heat... well, it used to be bearable.
It used to invoke images of a more naked you;
it used to wave a banner of romantic freedom.
It brought me closer to you
BUT DIDN'T EVERYTHING
do just that?
fuck I wish I was something new.
That I had perspective that was obviously
fresh
tightly wrapped, seal unbroken.
I wish I could open peoples minds,
use these sagging, feverish words to make them see a world
that bears close resemblance to mine,
to make them change their mind
when I only want to change yours.
What still drives me, then.
To release a Title, a Vision, a Message
to someone, anyone, you
to change, inspire, you
for the better, worse, you
"what you need to focus on is yourself", the pathetic table legs scream!
and I think you think it too, on some mornings, so
Don't. Stop.
(excuse me while I consider erasing those periods)
I breathe my own damn air
I chew my own food
pump my own blood
play only with myself
build my own temple
plan my own future
but these lavender pages of summer
are yours, yours, yours.
I have no other weapon with which to self-inflict
all the regret chasing me.
nothing but music and words.
music, that which everyone hears.
words, that which everyone writes.
so maybe you were right in saying that I'm
Just like Everybody else-
(except that you didn't and it was only my mind that
betrayed me that night, vomiting)
And that the praise I get like crumbs
falling from the hands of the hungry
is either obligatory, because I've Titled myself
as a Writer of Note,
or misguided, because all I really do is Title
parses of my relentless mind into these
entrapments called....
sentences....
they say you're not supposed to write about writing.
and I'm sure that those who say
that
are great writers
who feel great about what they write because it's
Neat. Important.
Concise. Prophetic.
Stimulating.
Unique.
This drive...
for something new...
leads me back to you.
you who I would,
for.
Oooh, hear the sexy ghosts taunt me into sleep?
suggestively rolling up my pant legs...
well, until I realized that they were doing it
only because the heat continues to swell.
But, hey, before I resign to sleeping
like a
de-feathered
peacock
I'll give what the paper is owed.
That... something. That isn't. This.
Someday today, between the:
morning iced coffee and evening lemonade
desperate need for someone in my passenger seat
wanting to tell how you how I much I wish you were mine
I thought of how good of a writer,
how less sick of a person I would be
if I could write a poem
about hideous, terrible people
hiding in their gorgeous, luxurious cars.
see, now, how much of a failure
you've made of me
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