My biggest daydreams have always involved you, or at the very least, the idea of you.
I want a strong arm to playfully push me against a wall, I want a man's hand to pass me a cigarette (I don't even smoke), I want the couch to sink low as a boy lays me down, and I want his lips to tremble as I look him in the eye and hook my fingers in his belt loops.
Lick my lips,
I am a big meal to take in -
being a bad influence takes a lot of work, you know.
I'm standing on one foot at the top of a hundred foot pole, arms out, balancing. I've got obligations nudging me here, life-goals nudging me there. I've got deadlines blowing from this way, addictions blowing from that way. I stand here, counterbalancing against it all, trying to get these projects done. I just want to be the best I can be. I just want to please my shepherd. I'm a failing sheep. I'm looking down at the distance. I'm anticipating a fall, and trying to discern if I can survive it. I'm wondering who I will let down as the wind picks up. I'm asking my network for help, and they are offering advice. The pole keeps growing taller, I keep getting higher. My legs and feet are getting sore. I can't hold this pose for much longer. I want to sit. I want to rest.
As I leave the safety of my front door, I begin slowly at first; one foot in front of the other & before too long I break into my stride. The air is so cold it hurts, it burns to breathe but I do not recoil from it, no I welcome it's embrace. The city is in slumber as I traverse through it's networks of veins and arteries, all I can hear is the beating of my heart struggling to keep up with the pace my feet are trying to set. I am determined, I try to fight through the pain, but alas I succumb to it and must stop. I take deep breathes, the air chills me to the bone but I feel free.
I remember a time, standing in my best friend's driveway late at night. I took a drag off your cigarette but you told me I could only have one because they weren't good for me. That was months ago. Now you tell me that you're no good for me, that being with you will be another mistake to regret in the morning. But I keep waking up wishing I'd stayed up later to love you longer. And I know that you're good for me even if you can't see it yet. I love you so much that I'll compromise and say that we're just friends even though I know that the universe has much bigger plans. And I'm not one for that type of compromise. So I'll call it blind trust in us, that somehow, someway, someday we'll be together like I knew we should be that night in his driveway.
We are poets.
We find ourselves at 3am with overthinking minds
where writing becomes our solace.
We fall in love with language because we are the writers of words long forgotten.
We spend hours trying to describe poetically
the simplest things you could imagine
or we spend a few minutes trying to explain the meaning of life.
We have the darkest and most twisted minds,
filled with beauty and madness
We write so much that not writing makes us anxious
We are the dreamers in an awake world
the sufferers in a peaceful time.
We are poets,
and our fingers become the pen in which we write
as we pour out our souls onto the page of our hearts
We write until our words become us
and we write until moving a pen across paper
becomes our breathing.