Tuesday, September 17, 2013
I'm working on something that will take me a LONG time to write.
Here a tid-bit :)
Her glasses are fragile,
She is fragile,
Built of sowing needles and sweaters,
and the feathers found inside her favorite pillow,
She is the 8th natural wonder of the world.
Mostly constructed of tea, and mugs,
and the number of hugs she gets in one day.
Monday, September 16, 2013
Blogger needs to figure this out. I've had huge problems being able to post. I'll be sending a letter soon.
Anywhooooo, Here is a start to one of the first political poems I have ever written Not sure where it is going yet.
Our Wisdom Years
Too many people are measuring worth with time,
As if this time is any different.
As if a clock counts in dollar bills and respect,
Respect doesn't hold hands with age.
It has to be earned.
It has to be burned into our skin,
Cut into our tongues so we can speak loud enough,
Only be proud to say something worth listening to.
There is no need for ignorance as a petition,
There are already bigots signing bills and passing laws that put limitations on imagination,
Who restrict our rights to education and to love.
That sway the crowds to the motion of an ocean polluted with hate,
The dissonant sounds of generations losing sight of survival,
Losing their grasp on the reality of a car door,
Too often us children are being dragged and sat down in societies dentist chair,
They’re having their wisdom years pulled out from under tongue,
It is so sour to hear the sounds of innocence being pulled from ones mouth and mind,
The cutting of childhood from gum line leaves scars,
Only noticed when you smile,
And your smile has always been beautiful,
So show it more often,
Show them you’re proud to be young,
And that our innocence is not ignorance.
We've had it rough.
We've been told to grow the fuck up,
Given a rifle and jacket 5 sizes too big and told to fight someone else’s war.
Since first grade we've been handed sack lunches and prepackaged words from our parents,
Sentenced to listen to the repetition of how we should act, how we should act, how we should act.
We've had it rough,
Been given technology instead of love,
Brought up by a computer screen with lungs,
Ask.com only has so many answers.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
I never realized how hard it is to not talk about something you need to get out.
It isn't like I don't have people to talk to, I think I do, I just, need to say it another way.
To be honest, I just want to feel less.... like I do. Whatever that is.
So, second day of school, I walk into one of my classes and I found someone had taken my seat. Not entirely caring, I just sat across, and later found it to be a girl I hadn't met before. Not knowing her name for the whole first week of school, I merely made small talk, along with everyone else at the table. But then, about halfway through the week, it started getting hard to look at her eyes. I felt I couldn't move. Slowly, it got harder and harder to be calm around her, even though I wasn't being too awkward (I think). I fell for her. Stupid, huh? One week, not even knowing her name. Right when I started to admit this, I learned that she has a boyfriend.
That is how this happy story ends. Thanks, just felt like putting it up here. Needed to get it out.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
I have been having the most difficult times with ad-blockers on this website. It kept me from being able to post for awhile, but I have that figured out now.
So, school has resumed... I may have taken on a bit too much, but I expect to at least pass my classes.
Good luck to everyone else facing school.
Anyways, I started a new notebook on the first day of school, and I plan on taking small parts of it out and putting up here. In my English class, he gives us about 10 minutes of free time at the beginning of class to text/talk with our friends, so I just write instead.
Here we are.
The air in the room was warm,
Not an uncomfortable heat,
Just not so cold.
There was no tightness against my skin from the constricting pressures of ice stricken oxygen.
I felt calm.
It was white,
and not the bleak form of white that artists crave to change,
The kind of white you find against the back of your eyelids,
It wasn't dark there,
I could feel the water drip off of my tongue,
Sweet like honey.
But not the viscous, sticky, type.
The type of honey he found mixed into his sweet tea earlier.
She was also sweet,
Seated halfway between the door and her seat,
My feet were itching to leave,
to prove a simple point.
To make a stand,
I can't stand here.
There was a time this room wasn't shaking,
That my hand wasn't shaking,
My eyes never shake anymore.
I've settles down in my mind,
I've found comfort in your silence.
The walls were white,
Only covered in the sweetness of a forgotten smile.
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Saturday, August 10, 2013
In my room I have four bookcases.
That isn't to say I don’t have only four bookcases worth of books.
There are stacks of stories cluttered on my desk,
Fables and Fictions filling my floor space.
I've always liked the idea of walking among these pages so precariously perched in my mind,
Bound paper stacks pose as skyscrapers,
Their interior office cubicles containing billions of syllables,
Ink imprints are radioactive on the pages,
Their atomic infrastructure explodes in the dimensions of your imagination.
They leave a small boy,
Clutching a pillow,
Wondering what to do with his life
After completing Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.
Or the Lord of the Rings Trilogy,
Or that one book he found in the back of the library.
He has devoted every part of his being into these characters,
Felt them breathing down his neck as he lay reading,
Stayed up and had clever conversations exploring their thoughts on science and religion,
And held them in his hands for hours on end,
Books are dead lovers.
We hang on to their last breath,
They have built up to their death with the last will and testament of our capacity to move forward,
Use the information we receive to help us become a better person,
Like a story book character,
We’ll be wrapped around simple sentence configurations,
Accompanied by pictures that put us in the constraint of context,
It isn't about being able to define someone,
It’s about understanding where they come from,
Because I come from the fictitious facilities of being 5,
I still wade in the pool of memories collected over those years,
I remember having several random objects and toys that could somehow coexist in an imaginary world known as my living room.
I come from the days spent imagining we weren't so small,
That the electrodes boiling in our brains weren't so unimportant in the grand scheme of things,
I've noticed this in the outlines of scenic pictures,
A landscape of unimaginable lengths,
Filled with the lore of our storybooks,
I've noticed that in these digital photos,
Our imagination is that one pixel.
That pixel that is a different shade then those around it,
The one that just,
Makes the picture unique.
The possibilities are infinite,
Only defined by what we find in our hearts,
Not by the printed folds of any book,
But we all try to explain it,
We all try to draw straight lines with these closed eyes,
We haven’t realized it isn't about defining anything,
It’s about understanding where it comes from.
I come from a book I published in my sleep,
Where I rewrote the pages so many times,
I've forgotten all the lies I've scribbled in the margins.
Where time seemed to bend with the binding,
And it felt like a lifetime of waiting to find out what I wanted to say,
I have something to say,
I search authors for answers and see if they've already said it.
I've been looking for the nucleus of an idea to blow me away,
For buildings to come crashing to my feet,
When I figure out how to tell you…
I don’t know who I am.
That is why I pour myself into characters shoes,
Trying to find a size that fits,
Something that makes sense.
Fiction is easy to perceive when you aren't looking for the truth,
Looking for another world out there in-between two covers.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
I wish I could fall in love,
The kind of love that writes its own poetry,
That generates electricity from fingertips,
We could power a city together,
Sparks flying from hand holding,
I’m not looking for any July lightning storm,
I’m looking for a power line lined with kisses,
Can we ever forget this feeling?
Every second wrapped around wrists like bracelets with the word “Peace” written on them.
Like necklaces that hang lowly around you chest,
With a smiley face etched in yellow.
I wish I could fall in love.
Bend earthquakes into puzzles,
Just to shake up your head,
Turn tornadoes into a slight breeze to sweep you off your feet,
I’d hold you like a hurricane,
Twisting destruction into flowers,
Like David Copperfield,
I’ll make the elephants that are weighing down your heart,
We could be an illusion together,
We can look like nothing special,
But act like the fucking coolest ninja ever,
A Jackie Chan relationship,
We’ll be silent when we walk,
And karate chop pieces of the sky out to take home with us.
I wish I could fall in love.
Not the kind of love where cupid only knocked one of us on our ass,
But one where we were both hit so hard,
It was like a fucking freight train of arrows burrowed into our souls.
I know it sounds cheesy,
But we could have that “love at first sight” kinda thing.
I’d look at you,
You’d look back,
It would be that easy.
You would never be easy,
It's like setting the level on Mortal Kombat.
You want easy,
Just so you can win,
But that first level is never worth it.
You’ll be worth it.
A cash value equal to your heart would make digits spin around the globe,
But not every nickle and dime can amount to the sum of the hardships we've faced.
It'll be the penny tossed into a pond,
I wish we could fall in love.
Friday, July 26, 2013
This is a beautiful, and very personal, piece of writing Koyczan has shared. Definitely one that has the capability of relating to anyone and moving them. Although I'm young, I find connections, most definitely different than that of anyone else. It is one thing that never ceases to amaze me about writing.
It is different to everyone.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
There is a girl I met at a poetry competition who truly inspired me. We both love Shane Koyczan, his poetry, his style, all of that. After we found that connection, we started to understand each other. Even if just a little bit, it was something. She carries one of his poems around with her, all the time. "To This Day", a poem dedicated to those who have been and are being bullied. It meant so much to her that she carried it around with her all the time, just seconds away to read. This inspired me endlessly. I have decided to try this, to help myself in my struggles, as her poem has helped her. I picked "Instructions for a Bad Day" also by Koyczan. I will carry it around everyday this school year, and if I ever feel alone, I know I at least have that. This poem means a lot to me. It gives me hope that one day, I don't have to be sad. That I can quit feeling so down, and I'll eventually lift others up. I am not a very happy person. This poem feels like a best friend, and I really need that now. I hope it helps me figure some things out.
"Instructions for a Bad Day" by Shane Koyczan
"Instructions for a Bad Day" by Shane Koyczan
There will be bad days.
Loosen your grip, opening each palm slowly now.
Know that now is only a moment, and that if today is as bad as it gets,
understand that by tomorrow, today will have ended.
Accept each extended hand offered, to pull you back from the somewhere you cannot escape.
Scrape the gray sky clean.
Realize every dark cloud is a smoke screen meant to blind us from the truth,
and the truth is whether we see them or not - the sun and moon are still there and always there is light.
Despite your instinct to say "it's alright, I'm okay" -
Say how you feel without fear or guilt, without remorse or complexity.
Be lucid in your explanation, be sterling in your oppose.
If you think for one second no one knows what you've been going through;
be accepting of the fact that you are wrong,
that the long drawn and heavy breaths of despair have at times been felt by everyone -
that pain is part of the human condition and that alone makes you a legion.
We hungry underdogs, we risers with dawn, we dissmisser's of odds, we blesser's of on –
we will station ourselves to the calm.
We will hold ourselves to the steady, be ready player one.
Life is going to come at you armed with hard times and tough choices,
your voice is your weapon,
your thoughts ammunition –
there are no free extra men,
be aware that as the instant now passes, it exists now as then.
So be a mirror reflecting yourself back,
and remembering the times when you thought all of this was too hard and you'd never make it through. Remember the times you could have pressed quit – but you hit continue.
Living with the burden of anger is not living.
Giving your focus to wrath will leave your entire self absent of what you need.
Love and hate are beasts and the one that grows is the one you feed.
Be the weed growing through the cracks in the cement, beautiful -
because it doesn't know it's not supposed to grow there.
Declare what you accept as true in a way that envisions the resolve with which you accept it.
If you are having a good day, be considerate.
A simple smile could be the first-aid kit that someone has been looking for.
If you believe with absolute honesty that you are doing everything you can - do more.
There will be bad days,
Times when the world weighs on you for so long it leaves you looking for an easy way out.
There will be moments when the drought of joy seems unending.
Instances spent pretending that everything is alright when it clearly is not, check your blind spot.
See that love is still there, be patient.
Every nightmare has a beginning, but every bad day has an end.
Ignore what others have called you.
I am calling you friend.
Make us comprehend the urgency of your crisis.
Silence left to its own devices, breed's silence.
So speak and be heard.
One word after the next, express yourself and put your life in the context –
if you find that no one is listening, be loud.
Stand in poise and be open.
Hope in these situations is not enough and you will need someone to lean on.
In the unlikely event that you have no one, look again.
Everyone is blessed with the ability to listen.
The deaf will hear you with their eyes.
The blind will see you with their hands.
Let your heart fill their news-stands, Let them read all about it.
Admit to the bad days, the impossible nights.
Listen to the insights of those who have been there, but come back.
They will tell you; you can stack misery, you can pack despair, you can even wear your sorrow –
but come tomorrow you must change your clothes.
Everyone knows pain.
We are not meant to carry it forever.
We were never meant to hold it so closely,
so be certain in the belief that what pain belongs to now will belong soon to then.
That when someone asks you how was your day, realize that for some of us –
it's the only way we know how to say,
Loosen your grip, opening each palm, slowly now –
Monday, July 22, 2013
Saturday, July 20, 2013
I really want to continue this poem, I just don't know how yet, so here is something.
There is always something to worry about.
No matter how small the problem,
It still exists.
It still breathes in my sentences and contorts them into meaningless rages.
There is always a due date written in invisible ink,
A distant time where we need to solve the equation,
Finish the project,
Practice the music,
Read the book,
Say that your fine,
Why do you need me to be fine?
Friday, July 19, 2013
I've always wondered what lead tasted like,
Or the smell of gunpowder on my lips,
To feel my life drain through the end of a barrel is a feeling I've always wanted to feel.
I have never planned a suicide.
But that doesn't hide the hundreds of ways I thought of doing it.
Maybe I could jump off a hotels roof?
Afraid of heights.
I could empty our medicine cabinet with my dad’s favorite liquor?
But what if they find me first?
What if they take my decision away?
Who would trust me then?
Maybe then I wouldn't feel so alone.
I would never be alone.
What about a noose?
I've always liked the idea of going that way.
To have a tree strangle me to death,
To feel my breath being trapped inside my chest,
The best thing that could happen is my neck snaps on the jump,
Then what about drowning?
A cinder block on each limb and a jump off a pier,
I’d be so near the light, that when I hit the bottom,
My eardrums would be pounding so hard I would forget the sound of my heart beating.
I’d whisper goodbye through sand stained teeth,
And when the salt from the water scratches my lungs,
At least I’ll know I never wasted any breath on any last words.
I've already said them all.
I've already said them all.
Maybe starving would be the best for me.
I've never liked the way I look,
And yet I can’t find a way to rid myself of a stomach,
I could be thin,
And feel myself in loose skin,
I already have too much.
It could be slow.
And I would have time to tell myself that it would be okay.
That at least I would look better on my death bed.
I could go out fighting.
I wouldn't be able to be in the military with my medical history,
But I would find a way to war.
A way to fight with brothers I've never known.
Battle scars and bruises were something I never understood.
I wasn't sure if they were a blessing to the plane ride home,
Or a curse,
A stain on skin that you couldn't wash off.
They are stains reminding us would have died for something.
A coffee ring rung around a leg that isn't there.
I would want to die for something I stood for,
I have never stood for myself.
How is electrocution ?
I wouldn't know any other way but a toaster in the bath tub.
How would it feel to be on fire without burning?
To have all of our houses electricity boiling in my blood,
It would be dramatic.
I've never been one for drama though.
But fire would be different, right?
Instead of a dramatic exit,
It would be merely seconds of limelight.
I would be remembered as the man on fire.
Not the charred figure on the sidewalk,
Not the man with no way out.
Not the man with a choice.
Just a man with a match that he couldn't hold onto.
None of these ways are necessarily fast though.
I don’t plan on going to any heaven there is thought of,
I don’t plan on quite anything after I die.
I just will die.
It will be over.
I don’t want any second to think about what could be out there.
It all comes back to a gun.
Why is it so easy to make friends with bullets?
What is it about the shine of brass casings that appeals to the temples?
In the moment when a muscle squeeze of nearly 7 pounds can end my life,
I’ll realize how weak I really am.
I hope my blood drips in tempo.
That my eyes aren't fixed on the sky,
Because right then, it was hard to see anything good,
I wanted to be blind.
This Summertime Sun was too bright for me.
This summertime sadness was something I could never get over.
This summertime suicide has never sounded so good.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
I don't remember the colors of the spines on the books that lived in my bedroom.
I don't remember what the monster in my closet looks like.
I don't remember the number of songs I listened to.
I don't remember the ideas I've had.
I don't remember a lot.
I don't remember the last time I found a note from you when cleaning my desk.
I don't remember the first time I looked out my window at night.
I don't remember the last time I didn't think about you.
I don't remember the first time I met you.
I don't remember when I fell.
I don't remember.
Monday, July 15, 2013
If there is any background information I should give you before you make this batch of choices, Let it be its origin.
Choices originated our of our minds,
Whereas many lovers believe it to be the heart,
The fact is; our hearts make choices without knowing they had one.
It distinguishes its faith through instinct,
And plants the seed that made us believe these choices aren't difficult to make.
It is a fairly simple recipe, involving the following.
First, set in a small pan a splash of hope on medium heat,
And watch as it evaporates.
Recollect the vapor with the expanse of your palm.
Then add 1 teaspoon of reality,
3 teaspoons of compassion,
With only a pinch of reasoning.
Mix in a smaller bowl,
Allowing each ingredient to blur onto the kitchen canvas.
Now cool this to the temperature of your heart.
While this is cooling,
Find the nicest cut of selflessness.
Marinate for 24 hours in nothing but self pity.
Once the time is over, you can do one of two things to finish preparation.
You can roll it up,
and smoke it until you forget who you were making these choices for,
You can use the grill of your flesh,
Let your blood bake it until it tastes as fresh as spring rain.
Once your own selflessness has made your heart tender,
Shred it with all the frustration you've contracted,
And pour your chilled glaze over it.
Serve with a loaf of relief,
A side of resolution,
And a glass filled with consequences.
We don’t know if the choices we ultimately decide are right or not,
There are no grading pens to our problems,
No four parts to pick from,
Only a long ass response to the times we believed we were the only ones that were right,
Even when we weren't.
Because we can’t pickpocket perfect outcomes.
We cannot steal questions only kisses,
We don’t lie our way to happiness, We lay next to it.
The hardest part of it all,
Is to determine who is left with a smile on their face.
To make their soul fly,
Or find a resolution that best suits you.
Think of it as an equation,
There are two variables,
But we can only solve for X or Y
Because any line we draw will only be crossed once
By the axis our worlds revolves around.
This is all a system,
A natural progression into the universal theme,
Of the universe.
And somewhere out there,
A star wasn't able to make a decision on whether or not to implode.
I also posted this on another blog I'm doing with a friend, when we start posting more, I'll share the address :D
Stay up and hear how nothing sounds,
It's written in the lines of pencil scratches and paper crumpling,
Ideas can be sorted through faster than a box of trash on Storage Wars,
and we can sift the dirt from our piles of gold,
just to hear how this nothing sounds.
It's worth the ounce of precious metal found in the same pan as you cooked dinner that one time in a hotel room,
Burnt bacon has never tasted so bad before.
Stay up with me lover,
and hear the sound of my breathe fading away,
of sentences getting shorter,
And words somehow finding a way to ground themselves to your mind more than any other memory.
Stay up with me as I reread all of your texts,
I miss when we said I love you at 4 am.
Stay up with me,
And read all the things I never said.
I love the way your head fits on my shoulder,
and the way my hand gets hot when I want to hold your hand.
It's like the lack of sleep let us ignore a lot.
Stay up with me lover,
Your company is appreciated.
When I'm alone I get sad.
I don't like being sad.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
So that last poem I posted, Red or Green, I read in a poetry slam last night in the final round. Despite it being on page, I managed to get first place! This is the first slam I have taken first, and it was quite exciting :D Now I have a $10 gift card to my favorite Cafe :)
Saturday, July 13, 2013
I was raised on pinto beans and shredded cheese.
Our treat was getting pinon nuts from a van on 550,
And that little stand out by the pueblo?
That’s some of the best food you’ll find for miles.
Our compass is the Sandias where you can see the sparks of Albuquerque being sprinkled on desert darkness.
Leaving shadows on the mesa,
Like the shadows cast from the cottonwoods,
The Bosque is always afraid to be set ablaze.
And the river will just disappear into mud stained footprints when we walk on its banks.
From sunrise to sunset,
Clouds speckle the sky,
The sky that, to me, has always made it look like we were inside a snow globe.
Casinos line up like children at an ice cream truck in the middle of the summer,
My favorite one is the SpongeBob with cross-eyed gumballs
And when we went to the dollar theatre: It was because our swamp cooler was out.
Riding your bike was like holding out a magnet to all the goat heads on the ground,
Walking home with two flats and a shoe full of sand was something I got used to.
Where the sunsets are something you don’t want to get used to, they are beautiful.
Like the tortillas from the Frontier, they are so beautiful,
Especially with some carne adavada,
Which brings up the question of color.
In a place filled with so many different people, I don’t like to segregate, But I have to ask.
This is important now,
Are you Red or Green?
Because if you want to go in-between I’ll allow Christmas to be a valid answer as well,
We just needed to get that out of the way.
So I can say this.
I am New Mexican,
It might not show it in my skin,
But I was born here,
And so was my family,
I’m done being the outsider in a society I was raised in,
Give me one reason why blood decides who you have to be.
It only shows you who you were before.
All that matters now is who I want to be.
I grew up thinking fresh fruit was something you only found in fancy restaurants.
I thought a tall building was three stories high,
And that freeways only has three lanes,
I thought that all mash potatoes were the instant kind,
And soup consisted of just chicken broth.
The only thing better than a bowl of red chili and beans in the winter was eating it after playing in the snow.
It was magical if it managed to stick to the ground for at least an afternoon.
I thought snowmen were supposed to be 2 feet high.
And that the mesa was something every neighborhood was surrounded by.
We are all surrounded by division signs,
By times where we build brick walls on playgrounds,
And differences stand in the way of friendships.
Despite our disagreements,
Lets agree that skin color doesn't define anything about home.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
1. I miss the way your names would roll off my lips when I would read them in a letter you would end up never responding to.
2. In a class, amidst the hundreds of assignments, we were told to plant a tree. A tree to bloom of grandparents and mothers, and children. It was my family tree, and I remember my decision to make it lopsided.
3. You weren't at his funeral, a mere five years have passed, and you are standing in a kitchen. Alone. Even your presence was not felt in the sand that swirled around his tombstone.
4. I didn't understand what had happened. My father cried for the first time I’d ever seen, and I was still so young. We sat on Papa’s front steps, by his garden full of life, flowers of every color imaginable in bloom as if this was the last time they’d ever touch the sun. A honey bee landed on a purple one, and you reached for it. I told you not to, that it would hurt you. Your hand never hesitated though. It crawled up on your finger, and time seemed to slow down. A creature I had always been wary of stood inches away from me, and it was so graceful. Its brilliant yellow on a black that seemed to have gone through one too many washing machine trips. It was soft. And when I ran my small fingers across it, you said “Don’t be afraid”. I am no longer afraid.
5. Your surprise on Thanksgiving Day was wonderful. We made pecan pie from scratch, and I’m not sure what why, but it tasted so much… sweeter.
6. That Christmas morning I felt myself grow a few inches taller. Beside a Christmas tree and a pile of ripped wrapping paper, he stood there. Old cowboy hat, button up shirt, faded jeans, and cowboy boots, he just stood there. Smiling. And beside him, we all felt a little bit taller.
7. I don’t know you too well yet. You’re old. But reading with you is always fun. I have just begun to learn what reading is truly about. I love dinosaurs, and this book is completely right; we should totally have dinosaurs as pets. Could you read the part with the firemen, using that tall one Papa? Read it again. Maybe I’ll read it with you next time. But we have to start saving our money, and then we’ll find a pet store that sells dinosaurs. But for now, sitting on your lap, I couldn't be any happier.
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
This man truly inspires me. He was at one of the first local slams I went to and continues to surprise me with the amount of emotion he can pull out of an audience. His name is Zachary Kluckman, and he is an amazing poet. I have the highest respect for him as a performer and a person.
This has some lines of earlier poems, but they all needed to be brought together like this.
I’m tired of crossing finish lines,
The checkered stripes don’t have the same vibrato they had before,
Just like the floor we danced on,
The grooves of the spinning vinyl don’t hold the keys that unlock our chests anymore,
They must be lost amongst the melodies of our voices.
And I would sing to you every night if only I had the chance.
Can I have this first dance,
Because I dream of our hips swaying slowly,
and the music fading slowly,
Our eyes drifting slowly.
I’m tired of being a wallflower,
Leaning against a brick wall,
in hopes I’ll just fall through it,
just so I don’t have to see us miss another slow song together.
Searching the crowd just to see you is getting old,
I wish I could just fold up this memory and throw it away,
It’s the note you never want the teacher to read aloud,
the words you want to never make a sound,
When you whisper in my ear,
I get chills across my mind just trying to find some way to ignore you,
Because every syllable you let fall from your lips rips me apart,
I can’t begin to start an explanation for this mystery.
Look for clues everywhere but under my shoes,
Because I know I never stepped on anything besides myself,
And I have no answers to give you,
I’ll try my best on any short answer test.
But I've got the rest of the time to ask questions.
Because there are so many of them.
Why do I keep building bridges out of stones,
Just to see my bones break in a river that’s all dried up.
I’m tired of wasting my time on a turntable that doesn't seem to come back around,
I wish you would come back around,
Like a flat tire on a car heading towards the edge of a cliff,
You can’t deny the inevitability of falling,
And the few seconds we have during free fall will leave me dangling on the idea that maybe,
we could have turned around a little earlier,
Made different choices,
Gotten a tire change
This idea can change
Along with the beats our hearts sing to,
And I've always been a little sharp,
But I’m sure you’ll find a way to tune me
when you leave my strings to settle in the reverberations of a slammed door,
Just like the floor where we danced,
Let’s not miss this chance to get it right,
Because I’m tired of being tired at night.