inexplicably, the gray-purple haze of November midnight and ugly light pollution makes you want to break your knuckles on the concrete of your porch ledge. you're too angry for reason or maybe because of it but either way, the bed is too far and has too much give for your take. you collapses hard into wrought-iron arms and shut your eyes in the hope of wind. the only things you've felt in true ownership of are words, and now you've gambled them away to a dealer who knows all of your hands.
the sigh you heave pushes you to your feet and if you were selfish enough, maybe over the ledge, but far better men than you have died for far less than your indulgent dramatics. it’s with resignation that you shut the door on night’s howl and slump towards the colorlessness of your bedroom. instead of sheep you count casualties and lose track as they climb with the rising numbers on your alarm clock. you wonder when you became so petty.
what happened? why do you let one person make you feel so small, so insignificant and stupid that you lose footing with every step? you used to own, to take and clutch tightly to your chest the pride and confidence that kept you from drowning. why did you let someone make you feel like you don't deserve happiness, to get what you want? everybody says you look tired, bruises beneath your eyes. you spend so much time on the ground you forget what it feels like to stand.
seems everything is about feeling grounded, isn't it? making sure you know your roots will hold. that you have roots at all. you don't, though, do you? your tightrope balance is not really a balance at all, but crossed fingers and a shaky exhale. you're ironically tied down by your detachment, your disenchantment of your surroundings, that you're stuck on staring at the damage instead of figuring out how to patch the havoc.
you know what you are not. it’s not something you comprehend immediately. you are nothing of an action, an interjection. you click verbs into place but can’t be bothered to be as active as they are, remaining passive and trying to figure out when it started getting so difficult. you are not the only one who has been told no by everybody and slapped down into the dirt when you tried to argue otherwise. you are not the only one to enter the labyrinth of change with no string around your wrist.
but it feels that way. doesn't it?
the sigh you heave pushes you to your feet and if you were selfish enough, maybe over the ledge, but far better men than you have died for far less than your indulgent dramatics. it’s with resignation that you shut the door on night’s howl and slump towards the colorlessness of your bedroom. instead of sheep you count casualties and lose track as they climb with the rising numbers on your alarm clock. you wonder when you became so petty.
what happened? why do you let one person make you feel so small, so insignificant and stupid that you lose footing with every step? you used to own, to take and clutch tightly to your chest the pride and confidence that kept you from drowning. why did you let someone make you feel like you don't deserve happiness, to get what you want? everybody says you look tired, bruises beneath your eyes. you spend so much time on the ground you forget what it feels like to stand.
seems everything is about feeling grounded, isn't it? making sure you know your roots will hold. that you have roots at all. you don't, though, do you? your tightrope balance is not really a balance at all, but crossed fingers and a shaky exhale. you're ironically tied down by your detachment, your disenchantment of your surroundings, that you're stuck on staring at the damage instead of figuring out how to patch the havoc.
you know what you are not. it’s not something you comprehend immediately. you are nothing of an action, an interjection. you click verbs into place but can’t be bothered to be as active as they are, remaining passive and trying to figure out when it started getting so difficult. you are not the only one who has been told no by everybody and slapped down into the dirt when you tried to argue otherwise. you are not the only one to enter the labyrinth of change with no string around your wrist.
but it feels that way. doesn't it?
