(y'all should listen to the album goodbye yellow brick road by elton john. any time's alright :-) i just think it's pretty neat.)
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- haha, it's been a while, hasn't it? sorry about that. you know how it is, the fleeting feeling of life loosening its grip on you as the world around you stutters; a weeping breath is all it takes to surround yourself with a less-than-welcome slap of fresh air (well, fresh as in new. new to you. a more bristled waft of cardboard and misery it was, really.), don't you?
- an even moreso healthy dose of reality stabs through the honeycomb of your face again and again until the sun burns the roof of your mouth and your teeth have made friends with the back of your eyelids.
- there is nothing to take here, and surely nothing to gain, and yet you take a few steps further back into the hole laid gapless at the break of your existence—the light of her worth has always smelt bitter on your tongue, a last-shot resort at finding something human-esq as possible, a fleeting wish for something more than this, the taste of blood that welcomes your buds when it comes true.
- your longing for life bites you back like the tiger left hungry for a lifetime or two.
- but only when the pain truly fades is it obvious that this sulphur of stars and cigarette butts is the true love you had longed for all this time.
- cry your tongue out through the shattered mane that is your hair and laugh hysterically at the simple tune that jars you with sand, forever to remain in this sealed bottle of castaway hopes and the misery you fall asleep beside each night (as you have for quite a while now).
- and this sand bellow you once also had feet, had a mind of its own, a soul left searching the remains of its worth for the final call destiny laid upon its weary heart.
- you are a ship in a bottle, one left dusted and cracked somewhere behind a whole lotta newer ones; shinier collectables with silver bits and bobbles you before had only seen on T.V.
- they live with you in an artisan's world, one dim and slow and no longer your own.
- you wonder if these changes would have been a bit more impactful on the old you—the one left (albeit not by choice) in the past with their toys and life of color and awe.
- sometimes you miss the feeling of having to catch your breath. but then again, most days you just don't breathe at all.
- no longer do you see the truth for what it is. a long time jaded the visor over your eyes has become, cracked and worthless before any sight of the gods that replace and remove you.
- almost as if death warmed over, the land beneath your tender feet ebbs and bends. you catch yourself, suspended in place as you had always been.
- a little girl laughs at the silly glass sculpture set down upon her nightstand that a dearly beloved grandfather had crafted long ago.
— you rest again.
(maybe there'll be another jumble of useless words after this one... if my brain does not quit this senseless aching.)
YOU ARE READING
shawshank
Poetry🥀 sometimes it gets better. and sometimes it doesn't. cover by dilfzasupremacy on tumblr
