There’s something about walking down the only street in a small town when the only lights you see are the street lamps illuminating the light rain that never stops. When you have a sense of home in the souls of your feet and a welcoming smile in the shallow pools gathering in the gutter.
Posts tagged "writing"
You’ve impacted my entire life. You’ve knocked me on my pivotal point and gave me a little push. You live in the top-left corner of my stomach, under my tongue; you live under my fingernails and in the volume levels of my iPod. You exist in the back seat of my car and even in the secret box in my closet; you are virtually impossible to forget.
the human clock is the recession of a nation
the wasted days and the restless nights
the lack of focus feeding on the momentum of a pendulum
diffusing the minutes through its spindly fingers,
using the time to fabricate years of its own.
gears grinding like the collision of organs
like knuckles gripping,
pale white and stretched
over escaping hours.
a non sequential notion of you and i,
our erratic pulse under our gripping shame.
Forgetting you is like the feeling you get the second before you break the surface,
the paralyzing moment you realize that this may be the last time;
that this may be your death, with lungs full of water.
Forgetting you is like plucking a bass after your blisters have worn thin,
after the blood has dampened the strings to tarnish the nickel into a vigorous tangerine tinge,
like the shortness of breath from a thousand pair of eyes gently
laid upon your trembling hand as it grips the microphone for the very first time.
Forgetting you is like tearing off your toenails,
one at a time,
like walking barefoot in the snow to Denmark and back,
like the agonizing pulse behind your eyes as your brain swells.
Forgetting you is like breathing disaster, looking into the barrel and
watching, eyes wide, as you
pull the trigger.
I don’t know how to explain it. You’re different and you’re real.
You just are.
In a world where so many things aren’t, where people just don’t, you’re sitting there as yourself, just being.
It’s easy to stereotype a writer.
If you meet a writer, you know they feel things, and by ‘things’ I mean everything, at a whole new level. Writers have to feel everything. They have to feel what the pen feels when it runs out of ink, and how the grass feels as the horse looks at it as if it weren’t particularly appetizing.
Don’t ever look at a writer as just another puppet, because puppets pretend, and writers live.
I think I mumbled something about how good you are. I hope you heard that because I dont think my lips have ever spoken truer words.
The very last words you spoke to me as your lips found mine in a tangle of envious words and inexplicable emotion. And to you, “I have to go. My mom is waiting” and a dash out the door with not another glance back.
But now, with not even words left to go through, I wish with all my heart that I had taken that fraction of a second to turn my head and stare at all that kept me alive, the one notion that I will never forget, to look at you, study just you, and inhale you whole, but I never ever would I have known it would be the last time, because you said you’d come back.
I have this vision of you running your fingers up and down my spine as my legs run down yours and my head rests on your chest, listening to your heart slow and then race.
I have this vision of me asking if we can just not go to sleep and lay here until the curtains begin to brighten, talking of how much you don’t want to leave and how much you hate these hotel beds, you suggesting pancakes for breakfast and I, agreeing that you couldn’t be more perfect.
No matter how much you say it, it’s never enough. You’ll never know if I say it, you’ll never know if I don’t say it. And I hate you because of that. I really do. I hate you.
And it hurts to say it but I do. I hate you for your ignorance.
why do nights like these have to end?
can we all just pull up an extra chair or two? the table is big enough.
can we all just sit here until the rain gets too heavy to bear
or the cold gets too harsh to weather?
i won’t leave you here after closing,
just come sit with me and listen.
put a little extra sugar in your coffee
and come talk to this guy.
there’s something in the air here.
it’s cold and humid and come write on the foggy windows.
nights like these don’t last and you need to learn from me.
on nights like these i can really be happy
because this is the one thing i allow myself to care about.
no, i’m not drunk,
the thought that i belong somewhere has never been so sobering.
look at my eyes and tell me i’m not meant here.
listen to their songs and tell me i’m not meant to hear them.
listen while i make the tip jar clink.
and yes, i would like that is a to-go cup.
The only place in the world that people gather to not give a fuck. The rebels, the hippies, the fighters and the smokers, the players and the thinkers, the speakers and the makers, together to subscribe to the mic in the event of being bashful. The coffee drinkers and the loud noise makers, the similars and the opposers, working together to not give one single fuck about formalities, if only for a few hours. Speak to the bush people, sit on cold concrete, share a thought and get engaged. For a few hundred square feet you can be free, not without the exception of the wild ones, the tragic ones, the spectacular, the ones who leave to seek a better life, a girl thousands of miles away and the crumpled hood of a car. You can let go of the curfew and listen while you laugh and forget to find a ride home because it’s okay. You forget yourself in the damp streets and you listen. You go to listen and that’s really a beautiful thing, the gathering of the listeners. The listeners while they speak, and the smokers while they drink. The drivers while they call ‘shotgun’ and the conformists while they rebel. It’s an enchanting thing to see the lights on in such a dark town.
And suddenly, I don’t want it to end.