“I promise” are words reduced to bankrupcy
As faith has already spiraled into recession.
Overworked voices mechanically voice over,
And machines print
Until the moment inflated hopes fall.
Foreclosures seal in the bitter taste of loss and disappointments.
Words constantly fail to find follow-through.
Lost homes, empty accounts, loan stamped with denied in smug correction ink.
Stocks plummet.
But no one invests in depression.
Stop and listen.
Close those half moon lids dusted in gold,
Forget, everything.
Let sunshine rise kneaded dreams,
into motions and grace.
Pretend
everything comes true. And
Dream
in color, in movement, in silence.
Lift flat ballerina landscapes into space.
Find contours in your heel,
Discover the ripples in your curves,
And the the netted bloom of a tulle skirt.
Watch pointed toes paint backdrops into maple,
Follow the lifted ends of matte rose lips,
And remember.
Remember this is pretense.
Now look closer.
At emerald eyes covered by blue lenses,
Ruched leather boots sheltering feet
That have never told a story.
Cut-off jeans that end where legs reminiscing forever begin.
Look closer at truth. And
Stop. Realize. Believe.
Reality is beautiful.
Fingers gliding across gently frosted keys,
Echo everyday footsteps.
Walking with eyes closed,
My fingertips play life on improv.
Sweet and bitter tones fall on interval,
Blending shaes of gray where sharps and neutrals collide.
Confectioned melodies and legato harmonies
diffuse into the lush air of a dewy sunrise.
Whispering “just listen”
As the acceleration of each striking note
Composes a song, sings a story, builds a life,
On improv.
Thin soles of ballerina flats rest on uneven pavement,
Her racked heels can feel the broken glass, the pebbles, press into her skill.
It’s what she’s been left to tread upon.
Tailpipe exhaust spurts disregards as fast wheels screech the next corner,
Car gears inexplicably jammed in drive.
Her delicate face turns slightly,
eyes trailing the fogged visibility and black scars left on the asphalt.
Faded red Jimmy Choos on her size 5 feet,
Drag murky puddles along the asphalt.
Her frame is wilted
Scouring for pennies with downcast eyes.
Her 2006 Spring Collection Chanel coat,
Unwashed for days
Hangs on a figure tilted to one side by a worn suitcase,
That used to be a hot sultry hue.
It is all she owns.
She no longer looks both ways before crossing the streets.,
Knowing that on collision,
The bright red Porsche’s repair bill would be worth
More than she’s ever be.
With hands limp at her sides, she drags,
Left choosing between park benches and tunnel slides.
And sometimes you can hear her mutter,
Just for tonight
For the hundredth time.
I’m curious. What do memories mean? Do the memories you share with another define a relationship? Or is a relationship merely defined by those feelings of the present, of the moment.
I asked him what it was like to be happy. I asked him what happiness should feel like, and he didn’t reply. I asked him if he was happy. He was. I asked him why I wasn’t, and he walked away. He just left. I stood there cold and alone. It’s always been like this. Odd numbers don’t work out. They leave hands cold and shoes missing.
I’ve never felt the need to be part of something. I’ve never been comfortable being “anyone’s anything”. Why? I’ve always been happy as is. I’ve been happy alone. But now I’m not, and I wonder if a person could change things. If I’ve been missing something. I’m patient and strict. I have never allowed myself the opportunity because I’m scared. I’ve seen the looks. The pain and the happiness, and I don’t ever want to break. I watched him walk away, but it doesn’t hurt. I never let it.
But this lack of emotion is scary too. I wish I remembered what it felt to be alive.
It’s like this. It is really all about priorities. Who means what to you? Who do you choose to talk to first. These are the choices we make and these are the choices that define who we are and how we are perceived. I just want you to know that I choose me. That’s what I choose. It’s what I want. I want me to be happy, and for me to be happy, you can’t matter so much anymore. I am my own priority. When you leave, I’m not going to cry. Because it won’t be a priority. It’s funny how things are.
“You grow tired sometimes. You want to give up. Sometime its okay to stop.” Her hands shook at the remembrance of these words. The table thundered as fist hit wood. Passivity was not something she would resort to. Her back presses into the chair, and her legs finally straighten as they press into the floor. The chair screeches as it grates against the floor, lies.
When Sylvia was little, she learned how to run before she could walk. By the time she was a freshman in high school she set the school 1600m record. Sophomore year, she had won the state championships. She was so good at running, and it was always towards a goal. Her problems never remained unsolved, as running away was not something Sylvia did. Sylvia ran for purpose.
So she ran.
Sylvia puts on her neon Nikes and ran. Her feet pound against the concrete, and her heart beats match. The strength in her footsteps don’t mirror the fear in her chest. She keeps going, running, and running. But she doesn’t know where she’s going.
Her gaze points downwards, the tears well in her eyes. She keeps running, and soon enough she realizes she’s been running away. But she keeps going, with only the pavement in her view. She trips. Her hand grip the ground and she slowly sits up. The rocks are embedded in her flesh and the blood paints over her skin. Her legs are splayed one leg in front and another bend behind her. She watches the crimson mar the cracks in her palms. Is this all she’s been running towards?
Because there are times where you can't even get "hope" to stay.
Nostalgia for the boat, sunk by the stars;
Drowned by a lack of journey’s reason.
The country declared: “You...
my roomate hahahha
Maturity.
