I need room to think these feelings
really savor them in my mind
to pull them apart at the seams and
to give rise to some reason no doubt
I need room to think this feeling
hold it up high in the light
why are we always just reeling
kneeling over something so trite?
I need room to think these feelings
I mean, is this even right?
why feel these feelings?
they’re out of place, almost a lie
Who says to feel the feelings?
I think they misunderstood
everyone is too greedy
and they never really had a clue
I had room to think these feelings
and they seem like such a waste
they make it seem so thrilling
just something to fill the days
attraction is beauty by sight.
what am i attracted to?
what do i find visually beautiful?
smooth surfaces, shiny and glowy
things illuminated from the inside
the way the light hits
the way the light drapes itself over someone
the shadows that linger slightly, shadows that enhances the light.
cracks. breaks. shattered in stasis
static shattering, frozen in the moment as it continues to tear. allowing the light to fracture, the colors magnifying and blending into new ones causing a new rainbow to be birthed into existence. the liquid of words that penetrate and fill, causing the soft airy things to float to the surface.
the world shakes us and we become a snow globe. a flurry of moments and memories, thousands upon thousands of snowflakes, each with its own unique fingerprint floating around us, our tectonic plates rattling against each other unearthing a new part, a new appendage we can’t -as it emerges and finds its place- cannot live without. our little self, a beautiful tapestry, a menagerie, a mosaic. below the surface of our skin, if someone is versed in real beauty, will be able to see all. beauty has nothing to do with what renders men and women caricatures of a human being. beauty is deeply embedded within ourselves. it reaches out for a hand that tries to reach further in.
I have searched the sky, narrowed my eyes to focus on glittery lights and found a silky web weaving its way down to the ground. I see people get caught it in, trip over it, and rip it to pieces by a long stride taking it with them to wherever they go, to wherever people go. And people keep going, but I have paused here gazing at this phenomena. It has captured a bit of my heart, and created quite a tragic notion in my lungs causing my breath to run ragged. I feel like I’ve been run over by an invisible force that creates those silky, gossamer webs. No one can see it, and if they do they dust it away, annoyed they grab it and fling it away. You know much about such things, always climbing towards the sky, dismayed when you fall out of reach. We all want the sky, and I suspect the sky wants us all, so it weaves its way down, hoping to grab a bit of us. The rain falls over the fingertips and can’t quite get the feeling, the snow piles up and then causes chaos, and the wind is too fickle to care. So the sky grows down, stealthy this sky, like a spider, and the sun dews its sparkles as a warning, here comes sky, here she comes down for god knows what.
You do as you do, and tell me with that grace of yours to do as I do. But oh, how I’m weary of trying to be good. I’m good for me, but oh they want something else and I can’t possible understand the manual thrown at me. Can I be good on my own ramus? Can I be as you are? Reaching towards the sky, as the sky sneakily snakes its gossamer tethers down hoping to know flesh. This thing that encapsulates, that holds things together, this flesh that surrounds me is not what surrounds you and yet you are, yet you become.
My love, if only I can be as I am, if only I can become whatever the soul expresses maybe living wouldn’t seem so much to bare. Maybe, just maybe pauses, the simple gazing of a sky wouldn’t feel like a momentary arrest before the panic and the insight of metal locks clinking shut.