The bi-polar merry-go-round is proving fun lately. I'm on the up. Actually, the drop is something of an anticipation from up here, that's how up I am: so up that I even think falling will be a rush of fun.
Starbucks is evil. My tomatoes are gross. So watered down. I'm in love. Oh, never mind that last bit. Neverything we own. Even love. Oh, yes, and I wrote a poem about it! (Cause all emos write poetry)
Here goes:
The pain is gone
like this = bliss
do you stir?
are you honest
when you touch me?
I'm diving feeling freeing
up space
leaping bounding jumping
to where you can
see me more clearly
allowing the lights to
shimmer on long-withdrawn
rooms (kept them all
in darkness till your eyes
did light them)
I have no reservations,
but should I fain some?
: solitude or solidarity?
with you
It's no sollution.
You articulate the
void, under the pins
of that philosophy
I hear "love is
a distraction."
What? Must I battle
with critical theory
over your heart?
If love itself is the light
and the darkness
pulled from aching
empty spaces
and the slice of bread
formed when knives are
pressed down into
whole loaves.
There are two kinds
of love then: real
and fake,
cliche, yes, but
one purges over
cups full of waste
and flows into
clean rooms and
health, while the
other is born
of the origin
and leaps like fish
from the surfaces,
air born in the sharp,
cool, suffocating void
in pulsating little
instances, splashing
back beneath the
veneer of mortality
between these magnificent
flights.
We are the fish, and
I know this because
we so often swim through
the darkness undaunted.
I find you feeling
out of the water.
