(This post leans more toward raw than refined, and although writing is always painful for me, this was especially painful for some reason.
Language warning, if you care about that sort of thing.)
On most nights, I don’t know what to think about anything or anyone.
And the ink feels like blood.
And I feel bad for not staunching the words,
Because I know that self-pity is just another goddamn form of pride.
Some people think of others, and they are humble.
Other people try to be humble, and they are prideful,
And often not half as great as they pretend not to be.
The days I’ve thrown away
Feel like coins I’ve tossed aside,
Not knowing their value until it’s too late to go back and pick them up.
A thousand dollar watch can’t tell you
That time is ticking fast.
The body inside your designer clothes is not designed to last.
Bored eyes looking through the windshields of carbon-copy cars.
Blind eyes looking through the window-frames of houses and houses.
Blank eyes looking at the pixels, the grotesque fusion of light and glass.
What is left on these streets,
In these eyes?
Not love, not love,
Just sleeping in the same bed
And having the same last name.
Or sometimes neither, sometimes nothing.
Not love, not love,
Just actors fucking each other with dead stares and loud voices.
Don’t look at me, look at the camera.
Alone in the car at night,
Wondering what the hell is wrong with myself,
Swearing, despairing, hoping to cry,
I can scream at myself that I don’t care,
But that is when I care the the most.
Then I look through the teardrops almost on my eyelashes
And through the raindrops on the windshield
And realize that the realest things are the things I can’t see.
I want to find the place that was hiding behind the trees when I was young.
I want to go there.
Like that mountain in the distance,
That mountain that is impossibly distant,
That is unbearably desirable,
That is like a dare frozen into snow,
That is like a dream hammered into stone.
Remember when it felt like
We could climb the clouds
And stand on terraces of vapor and air
Lit by starlight and city glow
And a never-ending night,
An ever-promised sunrise.
We could talk forever.
All singing, all running, all with each other.
You’re a beautiful person and I hope you realize that.
The glimmer in your eyes is a reflection of light
From somewhere else entirely.
Hell, if it ended tomorrow,
I’d probably just look back sadly
And wish I could have seen the glimmer in your eyes
One last time.
There’s a little bit of cold blowing in from the northeast.
It doesn’t matter if you know where you’re walking toward.
The important thing is that you’re walking.
And that at some point other people will be walking with you.
And they won’t have to leave.
You can walk on train tracks and through forests and under stars
And across fields and over hills and next to mountains
And into the places where no one has gone.
And the breathing of the people beside you will sound like music.