every song you sing,
all those words you write just for me
late in the night
uncensored unplanned purged pieces of you
connected thoughts disconnected
and a peek into your tarnished soul,
(more) my pavlovian response a given,
every word another piece of me, an eager gift,
but you shine bright as the sun
even as your sins weigh you down
you did your penance and served your time,
just another common denominator
to twist us together a little tighter
in this eternal obligation,
can't run fast enough to keep up with the demand
or fast enough to leave it all behind,
like remnants of a bad dream stuck in the corners of your mind
the everyday clings to the tangled roots
but every now and then,
something beautiful blossoms,
we open the gates and release the beast
words pushed down and swallowed
in hopes of easing the burden,
and the torture of the hidden
collide with that taste, that finally,
i keep them all together, your words and mine
enough to fill forever
or at the very least, if just for a moment,
remind us we still know how to breathe
Some people say I have an unhealthy relationship with the written word. I simply say I tread the thin line between lust and love. I tiptoe carefully, hoping to fall to one side, daring to fall to the other.
I've always appreciated the power of words. Even as (more)a young girl there were phrases that could make me shudder with suppressed pleasure. The sounds of certain words echoing around the chamber of my mind made images spin before my eyes and worlds welcome me to things untold. I had a lust for language that could never be satiated, an eternal hunger to consume - and be consumed by - the words.
But words ultimately lead to questions. And people, well, they don't like you to ask questions. They understand, like I do, the power of words. The only problem is they don't revel in that power; they fear it.
So I've taken to hoarding my words, building them up behind a wall in my mind. I feel selfish doing it, but it's an action derived out of necessity. Secrets are safer; answers are better left for another day.(less)
Her words have weight
Like they could anchor a ship.
How many drinks does it take
To turn memories to ash?
Now, that's some modern day alchemy for ya.
(more) Thin blue puffs of smoke
Dance around the light fixtures.
The haze hangs for a moment
Before tapering off into nothingness.
The night sings like a lullaby.
You can hear the croon
Through taillight eyes
In the darkened barroom.
Her calls like nightingales;
Flying, screeching around my head.
I wonder will they once again
Find perch in my heart?
I hate that number below this text box. It's like a count down and once it hits 0, you are rendered mute. Your brain could be exploding with emotion, and wisdom and brilliance but you're still mute. Not that my brain is ever exploding with wisdom or brilliance, albeit(more) maybe sometime emotion, but that isn't the point.
The point is that I somehow feel this immense pressure to say what I must, in the smallest number of words possible, like I need to hoard my words, and save them for later, for some other point I simply must make.
I love it and I hate it. I hate it because I feel choked and insecure about my writing ability. I love it partially because even if there are 50 others, saying the same thing I am, there will be 51 completely different pieces of writing, and I don't feel so run-of-the-mill. Mostly, I love it because I avoid rambling, I'm rarely redundant and I sound more sophisticated than my colloquial self.
And so, as silly as it is to feel threatened by this countdown, suddenly I'm so grateful for this temporary ability to be eloquent. Others will beg to differ, but sticks and stones... Besides, I was allowed 300 words, and I'm well under the limit. (less)