words are like weapons, but mine won't wound
If all the words in the world were gone
And we were left with the thoughts in our heads,
The list of things to say wouldn't be that long,
If I had one sentence to speak before sentences were dead.
If all the words in the world were gone
And we were left with the thoughts in our heads,
The list of things to say wouldn't be that long,
If I had one sentence to speak before sentences were dead.
I want your freckled cheeks and blond eyelashes
and I want your flying hair
and I want your careful words that start tumbling fast,
woven together,
please
so I can wrap myself up
and remind myself of happy.
Dear, that fifteen minutes, a week
less than.
all it took for you to worm your way in.
A day. A moment. A lifetime crammed between seconds.
a bond that is a force to be reckoned with.
Intelligence is both a beauty and a curse, a double edged sword gifted to humanity.
A ball of fire lighting up the sky a fiery orange
Descending from the heavens
To fall over the horizon
In a final brilliant light show of colors.
I walked through the walls
I was invisible
I stood during conversations
I stayed behind as we strolled
I spoke a word an hour
I laughed to be included
And it all
Meant
Nothing to you
Right?
Did I -
Was I -
I'm never wrong
I'd scream until the sky fell
And drown in my own fever dream
But you could never
Never
I used to have it all figured out.
Schedules were organized chaos.
The beloved clock in the corner of my room,
was my gauge.
Told me when I was late, on time.
I was used to this system,
If I could weave the memories of you in a giant blanket
The night sky would appear
Or maybe the streets of that one city in Central America
The unspoken words caught in a language barrier
Why stay, when to breathe polluted air is to condemn your lungs?
Why stay, when to walk on hot coals ensures that every next step will burn?
If we, as people, seek water,
why do we always land at a mirage?
And it tucked wildflowers
Between the pages,
Petals and pollen spiralled
Like constellations,
Still whispering of the breeze
And of the shooting stars;
An apology that will never happen
From either side.
Cursed with your pride,
Instead of emerald green eyes.