If the motivation to our ancestors past was revolution for what their parents said they could never become
What are we when the world becomes our oyster?
We need the disapproving look of a “never,”
The disappointed sneer of our hopes,
Momentum comes quickest after a sprint in the opposite direction.
If there’s any hope
Among the hope
To make it out of here alive
I need to know
I must be sure
That I don’t have a shot in hell
I’ve only been capable of rescuing what’s been put out
The carbon dioxide catches my throat when we’re breathing too harshly for the extended silences
But I’ll save you
I’ll save your lungs as they collapse around shallow words
Falling down like the evergreens that supply every gasp,
Every expel,
Every sigh of defeat,
I’ll be your superman wasting away as the wind blows
I hope to be the hero you told me you could never become
I find my reality existing at the end of golden paved streets where the grass has overgrown like coiling barbed wires; the road signs off center and crooked in place of where the sidewalk ends. Not knowing is a blind soar into recently drained ravines and my ability to trust an inability to fly is neither metaphorical nor real. So I run. I run for an idea that sounds simpler than pursuing my confusions, as if there’s nothing I’ve wanted more than to sink into pristine universes that orbit around mini vans for soccer moms.
There’s more optimism in sinking, I suppose.
Drowning without voice in a town without a face surrounded by people who don’t hear is the closest I’ve ever come to becoming a shadow, and if I merely use this as reason to stay, I do hope you’ll forgive me. There’s a safety in my weaknesses, and the chambers of mundane that contort themselves into picket fences that fence around the creativity I claim they’ve stifled, and that is the height on the swing that I dare not to pass.
Allusions have swallowed me whole and I lie in figurative waters gripping at the theoretical straws passed out at 5th grade birthday parties to give me the outer body revelations that my optimistic fear cannot expose. Let the light shine down on my ignorance when the bittersweet taste of gold streets and metallic poisoning changes my genetic makeup into the one thing I promised I’d never become. Whatever it is exactly, would be best to say. I never knew the right words when the motions were rammed down my throat, I just kissed the blue skies filled with pesticides on someone else’s accord on the hopes I’d be remembered as sweet. Truth be told I can’t tell you if the blues were ocean waves lapping my lips –everything anchors one way or another, and I was the first to dive inside and swim to the other side.
It’s blazingly bright over here and the glare illuminates my reflection as I sprint past the rearview mirrors of a minivan orbit all the way back home to a picket fence that chopped the overgrown, coiling grass a month before the rent was due. My arms are out to my sides but I’m still on the ground. I’m still on the ground.
I’ve swum to the bottom of my figurative ocean
I’ve chased the theoretical maybes that left dust in my solidity like sand dune allusions
Every definite ending to my chosen hypothetical beginnings only stand to remind me of absences of reality
So regardless,
Or because of,
An insanity that only becomes metaphorical manifestations could I imagine in the darkest dreams of hypnosis causing ocean blues
Could I swim each day in a hope that I will find something there
There needs to be nothing more than a single, illogical, actual reality that knows no more than my theoretical hypotheses
And together we will dance in ends of that figurative ocean
My metaphorical hypnoses the only song that seems fit to play
I’ve never met a pair of lips that begged me to kiss but I hope the first plea purses from your mouth and envelops me like a hurricane
I hope the taste of your winters numbs the feel of your tongue
Ashes never as sweet as when you took out the single match that let me see my way through our summers
One day we’ll find a daybreak that keeps us from doubting our futures
The day will come when the setting of the sun no longer fights more beautiful memories
Maybe a time will exist that our choices make sense -wholly,
Completely,
Entirely.
No longer will we chase nostalgia to the ends of blocks that were more lively in our childhood.
Unlace our shoes,
Stare to the sky,
The time will come that our days are still the perfect shade of blue
Sonic booming pindrops
I wish something else happened,
I wish there was a sonic boom of thunder across the skies as fighter jets crisscrossed and parted the clouds, all while in the middle of July 4th fireworks.
Anything.
The person and the place in the motion of my mind
If there ever comes a moment
In which my existence becomes more than just a noun,
Where my intake of breaths are not mandatory but requested
Where they are verbs filled with passion that makes the ground rattle
Or murmur,
I will be okay.
Still, there’s this unbelievable urge that I cannot grab from my throat and place before the eyes on the table, and it pleads to become real
