I'm walking through the mud, making sure that the nose of my shoe buries itself in a temporary grave and then uproots it, to leave a trail for you to find when I go missing. It's cold and some latent bug pleads with me not to holds its breath against the fireplace to cure my sick. And there it strikes a great revelation, that prayer exists because a God is still considerate, men justify their need to refuse. I wonder if I hold all your pictures at my throat because it burns whenever I look at the clouds and let out a sigh. What would happen if I stopped for a minute, let Mama's call at bay for a few more rings and ran to you? Nevertheless, I turn, surprise the old lady, at the shop and at home with my pain, sending my love downwind to another for another.
Some ripe children run after the ball, past me. I was told to seek nursing from my bruises, darkened skin and scars. Now, I'm told that I'm allowed a few visits before the bees stop flocking to me anymore. The question begs, how much can you try to heal before you're accused of appeasing the sun, seeking its light and attention. The tragedy of our lives is that we were born closer to the cliff overlooking the city, you decided to walk towards the bloom, and my raining veins didn't do me any favour after you left. I wish you find the bees again like I wish these children find their ball behind me. When I'm down there, lend me some light when I try to write you a letter, and pardon my rent for it because I won't be able to pay.
Tomorrow will find me without a belt, eyes strained at the hour hand and the stained bowl of porridge. There are no librarians there, but they keep a solemn pledge of silence as if there's one around the corner. But would they punish me if I pull out the flaking rot inside me, or do I have to drown out the grunts with these cups. I'm afraid of looking into them, you'd brought them in a better time, and there might be something left. There's no difference between sweat and tears because you can see it in me, and with every rose neatly wrapped in a napkin. I would've cried a little longer if I knew my solitude would come back when the last drop dried out.
It's a different universe when you'll leave, someone said to me. Would the leaves droop a little or would they fall to cover me? Would my tiptoeing friends and family finally run bare feet? Would dimly lit balconies be an abode of passion instead of a case for reality? Would overturned bottles gaze their owners with a bit more sympathy? Would I be able to feel hearts against my chest? Would someone rescue my mother when they come for her jewels? Would someone wish to hold your hand and you not remember me? No, because I'm here right now, this glass will break before the next song in my trembling palm, and nobody holds a bloody hand.
I just rung the bell, and I'll leave with the night through the staircase light. Tumbling on a quiet morning, I will only feel the uneasiness of a ghostly heart. I don't need the spotlight because everyone abandons a puzzle with lost pieces. We all are a series of mistakes, some turn us pathetic, stressed for attention, but if I got nine lives to kill, you got nine letters in your name. And maybe someday you can teach me proportions, of blowing out of them, of counting significance in days and months, of their validity. I never took a shield because I had five liters to spare, but now the worlds seem to be blurring.
Watson, I couldn't find my way, so here's my note, keep it safe.
Some ripe children run after the ball, past me. I was told to seek nursing from my bruises, darkened skin and scars. Now, I'm told that I'm allowed a few visits before the bees stop flocking to me anymore. The question begs, how much can you try to heal before you're accused of appeasing the sun, seeking its light and attention. The tragedy of our lives is that we were born closer to the cliff overlooking the city, you decided to walk towards the bloom, and my raining veins didn't do me any favour after you left. I wish you find the bees again like I wish these children find their ball behind me. When I'm down there, lend me some light when I try to write you a letter, and pardon my rent for it because I won't be able to pay.
Tomorrow will find me without a belt, eyes strained at the hour hand and the stained bowl of porridge. There are no librarians there, but they keep a solemn pledge of silence as if there's one around the corner. But would they punish me if I pull out the flaking rot inside me, or do I have to drown out the grunts with these cups. I'm afraid of looking into them, you'd brought them in a better time, and there might be something left. There's no difference between sweat and tears because you can see it in me, and with every rose neatly wrapped in a napkin. I would've cried a little longer if I knew my solitude would come back when the last drop dried out.
It's a different universe when you'll leave, someone said to me. Would the leaves droop a little or would they fall to cover me? Would my tiptoeing friends and family finally run bare feet? Would dimly lit balconies be an abode of passion instead of a case for reality? Would overturned bottles gaze their owners with a bit more sympathy? Would I be able to feel hearts against my chest? Would someone rescue my mother when they come for her jewels? Would someone wish to hold your hand and you not remember me? No, because I'm here right now, this glass will break before the next song in my trembling palm, and nobody holds a bloody hand.
I just rung the bell, and I'll leave with the night through the staircase light. Tumbling on a quiet morning, I will only feel the uneasiness of a ghostly heart. I don't need the spotlight because everyone abandons a puzzle with lost pieces. We all are a series of mistakes, some turn us pathetic, stressed for attention, but if I got nine lives to kill, you got nine letters in your name. And maybe someday you can teach me proportions, of blowing out of them, of counting significance in days and months, of their validity. I never took a shield because I had five liters to spare, but now the worlds seem to be blurring.
Watson, I couldn't find my way, so here's my note, keep it safe.
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