it's raining here where my house is planted
drip-dropping in a constant method
much in sync with the ticking of my precarious clock
seconds slipping by driving me to the edge of bitter madness
or is it the glass after glass of generic vodka?
smoke from a half loved pack of cigarettes waif and squabble overhead
vying to replace the stale air my lungs long to inhale
i’m far too involved in the sound of absolutely nothing pitter patting across the floorboards of my mind
to take notice of such trivial things as blinking, breathing, thinking, being…
caught up in a great crusade of words inside my head...
almost exactly
like playing a lengthy game of scrabble with three philosophers and the world spelling-bee champion...
only the logicians can’t distinguish fantasy from reality
nor can the champion fathom the concept of phonetics.
the rules were never clearly defined in the first place...
the letters seem to arrange themselves almost automatically in to little clichés
that would mean so much more and strike such beautiful imagery if only I would take the half seconds
to capture them with poetic verse...
but there is no point to the fine-tuning of words, adjectives, or honing that perfect metaphor
when you never intend to show the world your said masterpiece...
or is that really my plan all along?
i have a history of pasting brightly colored sins to my character to attract some attention
a whore of ordinary sorts if you will...
always falling over the right words and lying with every second breath in some ill-fated attempt
to soothe your wounds with a balm of ungodly sorts because any tube of higher authority
would ruin the beautiful mess we’ve created and open our eyes to the filth and free form of this lunacy...
we’ve dreamt of tangled sheets at midnight and contentment found in mirrored cuts
a mimicry of self-inflicted violence deep enough to scar
our own parody of the ever popular tattoo...
we’ve strung hopes across the stars, babbled idly to the moon, begged for an acquittal from the llama and her resident mouse
only to find vehement denial on all sides, including our own.
we are left seeking a finale to rival all the great tragedies of our time
blaming our faults and situations on star-crossed tricks of fate when bluntly
it rests solely on things we refuse to discuss for fear of further distance...
but what difference would that now make?
life is merely just a three-act play in some sort of shoddy façade
with a beginning, middle, and some trivial end meant to pull tears from apathetic and shove god down the throat
of those without an ounce of religion.
our curtain has risen...intermission has ended.
we have only meager seconds until we perform our last parts
say our final farewells
and start over again with new words, tactics, and populace...
“i love you” seems a trite phrase to say at such an awkward time
and it may strike a few chords of dissonance along with a flood of long time regret
so i’ll keep my tongue at proverbial bay and bow...like the faux gentlemen i am.
adieu...adieu
my beautiful moth
who possess a passion for flying too close to a dying flame. |
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