Elucidating Questions

He’s in love with someone else, he’s in love with a beautiful girl. He’s just not interested,

He’s just not going to come around. Yet he manages to say sweeter things, like how it happens, that slight flip.

It’s not yet time to start this and it may just be the lamentations,

Of someone who knows how it feels, but only from one place,

And is so stuck,

Because they could choose, but they don’t. So when it’s the time to start the things I promised,

While I intended only to make something to stand on, I let them push me off of it.

Always trying to build up, and they push down,

Punch down.

I felt love for a second, it’s the first time I’d heard it.

I wish I could have him for even if it was only for a moment. I’d keep him if he’d keep me.

If anyone would keep me.

I wish someone would keep me.

Lying at the bottom of the ocean and staring up, somewhere above, far far above, there is light that shines through the sounds of the beneath

These plants that have no name, this creature that has no face,

How far does it go, if one human lay beside it, how tiny would one feel, staring into the places where people have been

But for a second. Singing from the depths, never to the surface, when we touched the sun it burnt us

So we dove beneath the waves, there is more space in the ocean than the land, deeper and deeper,

The opposite of air, like a bubble that could pop.

It could disappear if it didn’t exist, but I wish for the feeling

The feeling of flying free in the ocean and the no more counting.

The words connect outside,

But no one ever comes in these days.

And that connection isn’t there, it’s a laugh that follows.

So could we learn our own planet, rather than learning the rules of them.

Strange rules the ocean never taught.

It’s a flag on a stick and a waving pattern of

I don’t care anymore, no it didn’t matter

If that happened. If it ever happened. Whatever could have happened.

It was so easy to forgive the brevity when it was all I wanted.

So then it became, like if it worked forever and ever,

But it never did.

Can’t find it when there isn’t any, what a foolish title.

Pouring humanity into the pages of heroes creates things that feel pain.

Yours are better than mine, after all, there’s nothing.

I don’t have any words of anything besides dust and rust and pain,

Because that’s all that’s left

Of bronze, after the years of pain have gone by.

I put it out there, something, maybe.

I don’t remember why, but I remember words like thousands of years

Since I had seen

Any spirit.

But it wasn’t there either, and I don’t want it back, it was always so heavy to carry bronze around my neck.

So for a better day the red moon and the wheels spinning,

Trying to work within these tight boundaries that are not like streets, but vices, as the words continue to pour out every day,

The dreams continue to be born because the intentions were known by those who can read it, and even as the sun screams,

This sudden cultural jump that must be, must at some point be soon to move without moving a piece on a board.

Even when the piece is Mars. Some are and should be fought in silence regardless, but this one was not the mistake.

Responsibility is always taken, for the things we control, and of course words come out sharp when related to how long and awful it’s been, this strange competition that weaves its way in.

As if power was the goal, and not the love of the wands.

There is something unanswered, something that will be revealed. Something that others don’t quite understand, is this my piece?

Or someone else’s, except I know where he went, I go there daily.

The beginning of a journey that translates, the joker in the pocket the push of fate, it seems that is the direction he points after all.

The sudden changes that follow, the beginning of a new life, and that’s where he gets lost every time, but that’s what comes.

The bells ringing again and again, happiness and the end to anxieties.

I suppose that would indeed be a good day.

Silent, unseen, pulling of the tarot.

Painting it black beneath it is still red and bleeding. They say the pinks when the white gets in but they say cover it up

Doesn’t understand what this means, but it doesn’t matter in the end.

So we changed the writing, to who to write for. Because when it doesn’t make sense anymore,

The weary and left behind, continues with the pain,

And is called the weak one.

The unaffected, the don’t care and continue

Every day, how could I reverse it to make it seem as though,

It was my fault this nothing even though

They say the more pain the better and you grow harder,

You only grow harder when you don’t love

And this curse is quite simply, that I cannot

And it never ends

I love people and they don’t love me.

The words are superimposed onto one thousand thousand thousand songs.

In no matter the language they burst out and cannot be unheard or seen,

Now is it a speech of culture or a speech of being? A speech of feeling or a speech of preaching?

No one ever heard the fears that came along every time, fear every time fear and sympathy.

As spirits disintegrating into time, as souls floating in the sea, as hearts with a thousand holes, still don’t break.

Breaking free in three thousand ways that are now merely chains that chain us to him, they won’t unhinge, they won’t break.

Can’t sleep if it’s all the same. Now every morning it’s the same thing, the first thought or the first song

I don’t know why, and I refuse to ask anymore,

After all you’ll just do what you’ve done every day before. Do you know me or not?

Did you want to or not?

Was everything a dream?

Or not?

And why do you keep sending me to the door?

Now they say give a damn, and something about those Turks, but I love that place too,

The place beyond that is hurting, the people who are hurting, but it’s already bleeding, and the pain is too heavy.

I can’t carry the world on shoulders bent down with head bent to shadows and eyes to the ground.

Too tired to look up, looking up brings pain, it’s all beautiful,

And I still feel like the one and only beast.

I only feel pain, and it hurts to breathe.

It’s a cruel thing to note, that they are gold regardless of the colour they are painted during the night in the dark canvas of the lights

That there is silver in the threads like setting to keep them together when the red begins to fray.

That the beautiful pottery that was once made of clay, folded in with golden threads and lines to make it whole again

So we go back to explain, what you can’t see them?

It’s not seen it’s felt, the pain like a bruise on the heart, the shock of cold, hating everything as it comes

There’s no sights set, no seeing of the future for anyone else. After all, I’d rather not hear.

It’s after all, bleak, nothing, empty, alone.

And I’m not even afraid. Respect for it, but nobody wants to hear,

So who cares if it happens? Just one, eyes twitching, exhausted, alone, lonely, and forgotten.