an obscurity of lies in 12 pt font
There are books to read
left unopen on my desk
and I feel
I feel that if i get involved
in just another
mindless
spineless anecdote
that I will never
never
never come back.
And I would be okay
just fine
dandy, in fact
with that.
But sometimes feeling so lost isnt a punishment
but a solace
a peace of mind
telling me
letting me know
that if by chance I dont feel like going back
i dont have to
i have all your secrets
bundled inside
i could spill them all
release them and unburden myself
nothing bad would happen should i chose
to not be your lockbox anymore
i was the keeper of dangerous motives
of shifty time
i know things about you
yes, i do
sometimes you forgot
the things you told
and when i recant
you would just cry
over the things you did
over the way you lied
and you would praise the fact
that i was still there
that i could be
could and will be
in love with you
even with all that
there are times when I miss you
and all i have is my prose
all i have are the feelings inside
that i unleash, trickling like tears
on to paper, through pen or pencil
or even type
they console me
when you are far away
out of touch and reach you are
and i have nothing left to say
I do have secrets I wish I could tell. But they are not my own. I think that if I could spill them, maybe I wouldnt feel so connected to someone who doesnt even know me anymore, who doesnt want me, and whose secrets are probably lies anyways.
But I rarely trust anymore. With my heart that is. Getting to know me is hard. A difficult creature I am but rewarding and rich is knowing me. Or so I believe and was taught by him. Many would argue that anything I gained from him was far from real but i demand just the opposite. If his love for me wasnt real better that I got a world of learning and fulfillment out of then grief and loss at being mistaken.
But sometimes I doubt.
(Sometimes my writing is just pure crap)
left unopen on my desk
and I feel
I feel that if i get involved
in just another
mindless
spineless anecdote
that I will never
never
never come back.
And I would be okay
just fine
dandy, in fact
with that.
But sometimes feeling so lost isnt a punishment
but a solace
a peace of mind
telling me
letting me know
that if by chance I dont feel like going back
i dont have to
i have all your secrets
bundled inside
i could spill them all
release them and unburden myself
nothing bad would happen should i chose
to not be your lockbox anymore
i was the keeper of dangerous motives
of shifty time
i know things about you
yes, i do
sometimes you forgot
the things you told
and when i recant
you would just cry
over the things you did
over the way you lied
and you would praise the fact
that i was still there
that i could be
could and will be
in love with you
even with all that
there are times when I miss you
and all i have is my prose
all i have are the feelings inside
that i unleash, trickling like tears
on to paper, through pen or pencil
or even type
they console me
when you are far away
out of touch and reach you are
and i have nothing left to say
I do have secrets I wish I could tell. But they are not my own. I think that if I could spill them, maybe I wouldnt feel so connected to someone who doesnt even know me anymore, who doesnt want me, and whose secrets are probably lies anyways.
But I rarely trust anymore. With my heart that is. Getting to know me is hard. A difficult creature I am but rewarding and rich is knowing me. Or so I believe and was taught by him. Many would argue that anything I gained from him was far from real but i demand just the opposite. If his love for me wasnt real better that I got a world of learning and fulfillment out of then grief and loss at being mistaken.
But sometimes I doubt.
(Sometimes my writing is just pure crap)