"Know Shit"
I keep watching outside my window, waiting for something equally ridiculous as miraculous to happen to me.
I keep waiting for you to walk up my street, say, "Hello", and shake my right hand. Perhaps if we shake our hands we can create enough energy to exhaust the clouds imprisoned in my head and disperse my evil thoughts about you right now. Perhaps they will go away for good.
On a good day, I am subject to watch the small pieces of myself scatter away, heaving from my chest, and then slowly reassemble themselves completely.
You are far away from me, friend.
You won't speak and I am left to assume anything in the silence--the worst and comparably impossible about you and now myself, too. How can you come so far? How could I allow room for such despair and endless caring?
How can you patronize me so?
All the words? Every writing? Here I thought I was gentle, I was promising! In words I felt compassion and flight of a chorus. I felt something akin to honesty. Almost, free.
My heart is weary, as an oozing of broken sound from an exhale of an accordion set down for rest. I am sick of it. I have no room, no room in my heart for sickening, exhausting cacophony I mistake for sweet music.
I read recently, "Love is so short, forgetting is so long." I wondered what that meant. It felt relevant.
Feverishly, I keep stumbling down the yellow road.
We all receive our fair share of abuse from the reserves, now and then.
Keep reminding yourself, "Just a week or two more--I'll do what's right. Give up this romantic fight. Keep going."
It turns out I don't know shit and neither do you, friend.
Yet, I'll do what's right. I always do what is right.
KP
XXII
July 2018
I keep waiting for you to walk up my street, say, "Hello", and shake my right hand. Perhaps if we shake our hands we can create enough energy to exhaust the clouds imprisoned in my head and disperse my evil thoughts about you right now. Perhaps they will go away for good.
On a good day, I am subject to watch the small pieces of myself scatter away, heaving from my chest, and then slowly reassemble themselves completely.
You are far away from me, friend.
You won't speak and I am left to assume anything in the silence--the worst and comparably impossible about you and now myself, too. How can you come so far? How could I allow room for such despair and endless caring?
How can you patronize me so?
All the words? Every writing? Here I thought I was gentle, I was promising! In words I felt compassion and flight of a chorus. I felt something akin to honesty. Almost, free.
My heart is weary, as an oozing of broken sound from an exhale of an accordion set down for rest. I am sick of it. I have no room, no room in my heart for sickening, exhausting cacophony I mistake for sweet music.
I read recently, "Love is so short, forgetting is so long." I wondered what that meant. It felt relevant.
Feverishly, I keep stumbling down the yellow road.
We all receive our fair share of abuse from the reserves, now and then.
Keep reminding yourself, "Just a week or two more--I'll do what's right. Give up this romantic fight. Keep going."
It turns out I don't know shit and neither do you, friend.
Yet, I'll do what's right. I always do what is right.
KP
XXII
July 2018
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