The inertia of my bruises deludes me.
How strongly illusive and transcendent,
that the rust memories on the grey walls
never scream anymore.
The dark stains on my shirt's sleeves
are the savage songs of a hundred waves
crashing upon my cracked lips —
Like salty blood on low burns.
An absurd shade of grey and blue spills
from the smoke of his cigar;
My dreams are bare-faced, slicked with the summer moon.
They die after the meteorites in auric red and rise again
in the haphazard flow of plastic words.
I scream hard this time,
Too hard for the sky to glow,
Too hard for the sun to rage —
Too hard for everything that was raw grey but never blue.
Poetry dies at the cold car door.
The seat's cold, too cold for me to settle in.
He drives out of the town, saying those memories will go away.
Too sad he doesn't even know
that they always hide under my sleeves.
Too bad he doesn't know I like
slow dancing with ravening pain even when I don't wish to.
The weight of my dreams is too heavy to make me
feel like a dying feather in the flawed songs.
But I do when he's around.
The city runs with flaws tattoed
beneath its bare feet — how nippy it's outside.
The light from a solitary tune protrudes
from the cracks of my heart,
stirring low with the autumn leaves and picture-perfect scars.
He takes my hand in his; how warm they feel, oh.
Like a summer stain on a wine-red evening,
A lone bird left in the last ash tree.
It's freezing outside, he says, after a long time.
I lean closer; it's not cold when warm lips
as forgiving as his touch mine.
A bittersweet dream never gets remade
in this synthetic world—him.
My lungs fail with retiring hope,
My hands numb in the burning cold,
My lips shiver in the raw sync of everything —
My heart never does.
How still it is, like a tree shadow on stagnant seawater.
The flaws grow under the stormy blues and raw greys.
He throws away his cigarette, yet something lingers in the air.
A familiar pang of 'remember me' through the air.
Poetry grows from the rotten earth —
damp in blooming roses, dark in desire.
The violet rain cuts through the void world
as we stand still, holding hands.
For we were the lone dreams of a solitary star
That used to shine every time a storm passed.
For we were the savage echoes of inevitable memories
Stained on our clothes like birthmarks.
For we were the infinite spaces between puzzled words
Driving insane in tequila thoughts.
For we were the people we wished we never were
When time's running slow with the sun.
Too slow for them to see, too fast for us to watch.
We are doomed to the blissful tragedy
of 'never looking back' because
we've learned to wait in our hurries
and sing another song for the lifeless waves.
The only thing we know we could never do,
is whitewashing ourselves with happiness.
For happiness never ends happily
even if you paint histories with stormy blues and raw greys.
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A/N: Ohh, it's going to be hard for them. A quick, encouraging vote for them to stand against everything?
YOU ARE READING
the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||
