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UPDATIONS CONT.
mood: 
chipper
chipper_________________________________
::love lost::
love lost -
tripping on spider webs
and late-scattered ashes
in a forest of frost-crusted dreams.
love lost -
flitting through once-loved haunts
and hallowed memories
in your land of lie-inverted pleas.
_________________________________
::ode to a broken heart::
"It's all right," you said,
reaching out to me as you spoke.
"it's a little dented, a little bruised,
and there isn't that much of it left.
But what's left is yours."
Your hands close over mine, gently but firmly. Commandingly.
"It's yours."
I don't want to speak as you turn to walk away. It's not that I don't have anything to say....
it's just that I'm afraid.
Desperately afraid of what I'm holding, afraid of the bruised and dented thing, beating softly in my hands.
I don't want it.
That's what I want to say.
What if I drop it? Grasp it too tightly and crush it?
I'd rather not.
But here it is, this bruised and dented thing, beating softly in my hands...
So I carry it home
careful not to trip
not to walk too quickly
not to touch anyone, anything
for fear of this bruised and dented thing.
I don't want to be your angel, your savior. You see....
I'm too weak to be your knight, too afraid to be your lover,
too cruel to be your friend.
But here I am, standing in this cluttered room, this bruised and dented thing beating softly in my hands
It's like I can't let it go.
Here I am, pushing this damn grocery cart one-handed through the narrow aisles,
gently cradling this bruised and dented thing the best that I can.
Here I am, shelving books -- I keep dropping them, because it's hard to shelve a book while
gently cradling this bruised, dented, and broken thing the best that I can.
Here I am, falling further and further behind...
... too afraid to run, too afraid to look away, too afraid to dance...
Here I am, sitting alone in this cluttered room, humming to myself a song that has all too much to do
with this gently fluttering, broken, bleeding, dented, bruised, beating thing....
[II]
The fear has burned me out.
I'm an empty shell
A mannequin.
And even though this empty part of me wants to keep it, I'll hand it back to you,
because in the process I've realized that somehow, without knowing it, I'd traded mine for yours.
It's funny.
I didn't want it, but somehow I paid to keep it.
And in return...
... well...
I guess we end up not so different after all.
____________________________________
::untitled::
driving
deep into a sunset the grungy color of
old oil,
city-high lights rippling the surface,
trailing effervescent clouds of insect matter.
ah, at last.
lights.
the outskirts of a tiny
solitary
hick town somewhere in eastern montana.
the mosquitoes are ordinary.
but then, it's a solitary hick town
somewhere in eastern montana.
lights.
something about those dim orbs promises comfort
solace
a place to rest your head for a night
or two
after a weary day behind the bug-splattered windshield
of a crumbling four-by-four.
only a bit to go, weary traveler.
here's a tiny hick town
somewhere
somewhere
here.
in solitary eastern montana.
_____________________________________
::ourselves::
we are a string of broken thoughts
the skipping of some beat up vinyl record in a room with a shag carpet,
the loophole in your logic.
we are a lost generation,
searching for answers to life's questions in a handful of broken glass,
marveling at the blood-drop tears of knowledge trickling through our fingers and cascading into the snow.
a machine gun shatters the silence of a graveyard.
(if we know we cannot say it.)
we are the cacophony and the silence
of a world that is rusting at the seams,
the question and the answer.
we are nothing,
because everything is overrated,
and complicated,
and we are weak.
we are the dead living, walking, breathing,
full of a hunger insatiable for life everlasting
and perhaps just one day where we can all be happy,
and our wounds be healed.
::untitled::
driving
deep into a sunset the grungy color of
old oil,
city-high lights rippling the surface,
trailing effervescent clouds of insect matter.
ah, at last.
lights.
the outskirts of a tiny
solitary
hick town somewhere in eastern montana.
the mosquitoes are ordinary.
but then, it's a solitary hick town
somewhere in eastern montana.
lights.
something about those dim orbs promises comfort
solace
a place to rest your head for a night
or two
after a weary day behind the bug-splattered windshield
of a crumbling four-by-four.
only a bit to go, weary traveler.
here's a tiny hick town
somewhere
somewhere
here.
in solitary eastern montana.
_____________________________________
::ourselves::
we are a string of broken thoughts
the skipping of some beat up vinyl record in a room with a shag carpet,
the loophole in your logic.
we are a lost generation,
searching for answers to life's questions in a handful of broken glass,
marveling at the blood-drop tears of knowledge trickling through our fingers and cascading into the snow.
a machine gun shatters the silence of a graveyard.
(if we know we cannot say it.)
we are the cacophony and the silence
of a world that is rusting at the seams,
the question and the answer.
we are nothing,
because everything is overrated,
and complicated,
and we are weak.
we are the dead living, walking, breathing,
full of a hunger insatiable for life everlasting
and perhaps just one day where we can all be happy,
and our wounds be healed.