Maybe because he woke up one morning, older than he ever thought he'd be. Like a poet with a heart of glass, the winds of time too stubborn to let him go back. And there I was, with all the choices that could make it easier to forget.
Empty attics placing ads in their dusty windows for ghosts. Dark cellars tying to hang on to their damp shadows. It’s not so hard to find friends, the difficulty lies in wanting them. The future walks around in its fancy clothes, thinking I care how it’s dressed.
Maybe it’s my fatal flaw, to think everyone must love me. Just because I love them. Feelings like oversized umbrellas, only it’s not raining. Every step forward should equal all the ones taken back. But I know it doesn’t work that way. Potential with no ambition. Straw houses wishing they were made of bricks.
Still looking for some way to prove that all that isn't real now, once was.
Friday, July 23, 2010
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I haven't written poetry in a long time. I dunno why I stopped. But that's how I work creatively it seems. I'll be inspired to make some kind of art for awhile and then I just won't feel it anymore until I'm randomly struck by the mood again.
ReplyDeleteI love the way you write like this, all symbolically and raw and thoughtful. It's so beautiful and I feel like it's really stirring something in my soul.