Scared Leadless

i don't think you know how scared i get
when we talk this little.

i don't want to to lose this.


ps. i can't stop drawing.

day three.

my soul is old.

it enjoys large glasses and cardigans and shuffle board. My soul lurches at other surrounding souls with big glasses and cardigans and a need to play cards. My soul rejects drinking games and drama, for young souls rejoice over these things. My old soul has found one true love, but feels young about this manner, because it is yet to experience that sort of loss. My soul is wry from experience, but craves it. Our souls, both old and breaking, collide on broken edges to form figures and shapes quite possibly never known to man. We have ancient African roots and desires seen by animals only. The flowers grew about us and our ancient old soul passion. The wind swept across water holes and danced dances which were felt but never seen; these dances live in us. Wild, wild, wild.

Our old souls are alive, in big glasses, cardigans, and Africa.

why

do i feel so alone today?



what

is wrong with me?

why

am i suffering
from this inability
to convey
the emptiness that is
pervading me?

Part One.

"I guess I always feel sad." She said taking another sip from her glass and looking at her reflection. "I suppose talking to you does no good, though I know you will always find a certain level to relate which no one else can stand on.."

Days like these she was utmost reminded of the downward helical of emotion she was constantly barricaded in. The days where there was an abundance of joy in the air. The comical cliche days where there is that nagging, essential need for everyone to latch together in a paradisal and riant 24 hour period and take place in societies juncture that ought to come easily. The days like these were the lowest of the low. They reminded her not only of how she had better feel, but how she cannot muster up enough feeling at all to, well feel at all.

Setting down her glass and taking one more sideways glance at her own enigmatic reflection, before.
A slew and a familiar pigment rises.
Unable to view the distraught and disappointed face peering back at herself, after.

She pondered how a thin breaking of the surface can bring about this much sanity again, how tearing herself apart can bring herself back together. The calm following the storm. The ladder propped against the side of the bottomless pit. A hang dog to go with it and a new found blood guilty, pallid, model of her own yore that remains, constant.

Walking down the stairs slowly, feeling for the rail and crouching on a step she takes a deep breath. "I've forgotten what a smile really is. My lips are nothing more than a drape covering two rows of curtains; double shaded so no one ever really sees inside." Another heavy sigh, with drapes open, the bad kind. "I'm a poet to no one and I speak of my own flaws only to myself. I'm a person of caution and forethought in the most unnecessary times."

A finished walk down the stairs and a resumed position in a chair to begin a fresh ritual. "I suppose it would be better to stop narrating my life as I walk. Poetry consuming the motions, a sweep of a rose against pale skin instead of a kiss on a cheek. Either way, the converses with me are becoming maladaptive." She misses her smile, once lost, now found with an amazing grace brought into her life in the last few months. A smile with a new pull of curtains and drapes never begging to be closed...

swimming

my eyes
pool
and spill
far too quickly.

i drown,
much too much.

how to know you are right.

You cannot know.

When you are young and in love, there is no way to know that you are young and in love.
You have to wait it out. You have to engulf it in proper hydration and see whether the affection grows, wilts, or drowns.
My tolerance is low and my doubt rises higher than the tides. Sometimes i think we are in over our heads, but you know that.

I think..




In my top five favorite songs.