LIGHTS (Poetry)

18; New Repetition (nothing's changed) (everything is changing) (suffocation)

8-24-16
Riding the coast,
Your smoke is rising rising rising
(As I watch, I become the smoke
And I'm going higher from here),
Hitting the ceiling.
You're stepping on the accelerator,
And writing about this feels
Repetitive,
But these tracks feel new,
Along fields,
Along the water,
New flavors in my lungs.

We're blasting Skillet on some dirt road,
Going fast around corners,
Missing potholes,
Laughing, like we'll die tomorrow.

Maybe we're just lowlifes
Looking for some kind of high,
Looking for electricity,
Because some parts of us have decayed.

Give me something that feels less like sleep,
I just want my immortality back.
- (m.m)

All of those sent-but-not-delivered messages
And missed calls,
I'm starting to wonder who's at fault because
The lines are blurry
You told me you've been drawing lines
But these ones are all in my blood
Does that make the fault mine?
Mine,
Such a possessive word,
It's used so sweetly,
Yet
So greedily.
I don't know how to medicate.
But city lights from a Google search bar
Giving me some insight to my future,
And music loud enough to make sure
I can't hear you not pick up
Have seemed to work,
But I'm not sure how to medicate
The suffocation.
Everything I've ever known is changing,
And it's inevitable,
But unexpected.
Nobody set the obligatory rule that
Some things never change
Yet we count on that.
Medicating means healing,
And right now I'm not even sure
How to breathe with these thoughts.
I've written my days away,
Written my aesthetic away,
Written my memories away,
Yet I feel I have so much to bank off of,
Why is my mouth empty,
Hollow?
I could write about the things I've written
About a thousand times over,
I could write about you,
And I could write about the old pages,
And how they'd turn yellow from the cigarette smoke,
What those pages held, and
The way they'd fall through the subfloors
And give my city more of me.
I could write about night drives
And smoke smoke smoke
And pavement and electricity,
But that's all I've been doing.
I guess I'm afraid to ask but
What happens when I run out of things to say?
Run out of experiences I haven't overplayed in my head for months?

My dresser is cluttered,
But there's only one bottle of cologne there.
And maybe I plan to change that
But maybe I plan to do a lot of things.
Like clean my room right now,
Or walk out on my mom,
Or smoke weed,
Or buy a stamp to send a letter
Or walk into my old house and talk to the walls
Or paint picket fences
Or stop spending money
Or all of these things I can't get around to.
They're sucked into this vacuum space
And I laugh watching ideas and to do lists
Panic at the fact that they'll never get out
Of this void,
I know what that feels like.
They'll call it home soon enough.

Maybe sleeping so much has never been a bad idea,
Being awake hasn't done me too much good lately.
The trains keep going by,
I lost track of any form of routine with it,
I dont care.
I think I lost the obsession to these day dreams
And blankets on the floor.
The lower I get, the safer I feel.
The darker the room,
The safer I feel.
- (m.m)

I've never liked the number eighteen, but when you turned eighteen, I didn't mind, no, not at all, that meant cigarettes that were legal, and driving, and freedom, and you're still eighteen but you've forgotten of me now and I'm wishing I could take it back to that bridge at Narnia, under the moonlight. Man, I wish I would've just called, but if I click your contact, you probably won't pick up at all. And you're saying I'm changing, I thought you understood that, but you don't, I know Im not the only one with hands stained red here, please somebody hear me. I'm wishing for days I could say I feel full or alive or at least somewhat fulfilled but only home gives me that and I don't have a damn thing keeping me here. Desperation never ends well. Alcohol never ends well. What ends well? Because our ends don't meet. Not like they used to. I thought writing about him was bad, writing about you is worse, because I can't seem to stop doing either, regardless of how the fuck my day went or how the fuck the sky looks or what the fuck it's like to breathe or the fucking metaphors I'm using or what the fuck I've seen or anything, because you're here, and I'll always love your presence.