(no subject)
Everything is hurting when I breathe and I can't take enough air and my sentences never seem to end and they just run and run until they are out of my reach and sight and ability. I just sat on a park bench with a boy I haven't spoken with in months. I am trying to piece together why that was. There is so much theater in my life and not enough words. Not enough writing.
---
Restored from previous draft - Monday.
---
Now it is Sunday and an entire week has gone by like water sliding down my throat. No reaction, nothing to say. There was too much chaos, with so many shows and not enough hours per day. Last night, I sat in Jeremy's room for a while and wrote. I'm not sure how I'm feeling about it. I wasn't sober, so I'm not sure. I'm just not sure. At all.
Untitled
I twist into the undertow of the sea of streetlamps
outside your window it drowns me and the moon and April.
April is blooming lillies into the wind.
If there is a place to be homeless, it would be April,
and I would sit on your windowsill, swinging
my legs in watery morningshine.
Your incense ashes
tumble from the ember, shifting into a pattern
of words. We never speak.
Our laughter falls onto our shoelaces, our tattered Converse
bought from Goodwill because we thought we were poetic
then. I turn away from your wringing fingertips.
The steel-sky in April will be our conciliation, when
the streetlights of your suburbian lifetime melt into my heart
comprised of oceans.
Please, your thoughts on anything at all. I feel intangible now. Maybe it is from seeing my face in places other than the mirror - the posters from "Tender Offer" are still up everywhere, and it was, is, will always be strange to walk around and see photos of my face on the wall. I said this to Jeremy last night, and he couldn't believe how lucid I after smoking. In any case, I am not sure of anyone's existence, especially my own.
---
Restored from previous draft - Monday.
---
Now it is Sunday and an entire week has gone by like water sliding down my throat. No reaction, nothing to say. There was too much chaos, with so many shows and not enough hours per day. Last night, I sat in Jeremy's room for a while and wrote. I'm not sure how I'm feeling about it. I wasn't sober, so I'm not sure. I'm just not sure. At all.
Untitled
I twist into the undertow of the sea of streetlamps
outside your window it drowns me and the moon and April.
April is blooming lillies into the wind.
If there is a place to be homeless, it would be April,
and I would sit on your windowsill, swinging
my legs in watery morningshine.
Your incense ashes
tumble from the ember, shifting into a pattern
of words. We never speak.
Our laughter falls onto our shoelaces, our tattered Converse
bought from Goodwill because we thought we were poetic
then. I turn away from your wringing fingertips.
The steel-sky in April will be our conciliation, when
the streetlights of your suburbian lifetime melt into my heart
comprised of oceans.
Please, your thoughts on anything at all. I feel intangible now. Maybe it is from seeing my face in places other than the mirror - the posters from "Tender Offer" are still up everywhere, and it was, is, will always be strange to walk around and see photos of my face on the wall. I said this to Jeremy last night, and he couldn't believe how lucid I after smoking. In any case, I am not sure of anyone's existence, especially my own.