Thursday, March 11, 2010

poem about slimy things and sad but inspiring moments

A guitar held between his softly
Swiftly strumming fingertips
The roman candle sings his songs
Thick hearted I shy away from his words
I can’t claim ownership of that sadness
Find a way to play the perfect cords
I choke out the lyrics
Of someone more capable then I
At winding melodies
Enfolding whispers
But despite my tiny
effortless self-pity
I feel like a sister
Like someone who also
Searched through apples and batteries
To reach a pen that
Might explain how we both felt
Alienated and alone beneath stained sheets
And clouded in such pathetic
In beer
In pot
In drugs and in moments that were meant to represent
Everything we wanted to be
But we couldn’t be
Because we were stuck
Trapped in the front yard,
Underneath the bushes and rendered useless by the rare heat
That threatened this vision we had of ourselves
That united us
We were slugs
Filthy, hot, and salt crazed slugs
That fed off the pain of others
And used it to validate our sins
I cry because I can’t stand the heat
Because my own fears
Cannot touch the pain and the beauty
Of your guitar
Of your addiction
Of your city and your
Smith they call you
Figure 8 they crave you
I sing your songs
But I am lost to
Understand them
I soak up the thick, slimy, drops of rain
Covering my shoulders
And it doesn’t matter
Because dancing in my room
The sting of new-formed calluses on my fingers
You are here with me
And we are alone
Not only suffering the cry of substance
But enduring the effects of love as well.

No comments:

Post a Comment