I don't write anymore. Songs, yeah, but not poems. I suppose that I can still reel off lines though, and I did just that. And you're going to read just that.
"Skin Me"
your compliments fall on
deaf ears
like i've fallen
on
and off, the rare occasion.
skin
stretched and flexible
like drumheads
catch my eye, then
i'm off. again.
and you're on (me). again.
figurative & literal
until i'm off. again.
and then
it all happened.
and don't you know that i'm made of numbers?
and numbers define and divide
me
infinitely.
and divide us, infinitely. until
close (always, but never there)
friends argue and fight and
fall
and i drop
a smile, for a fleeting moment
and it's gone. and i'm gone. and i'm
down.
like a first timer asking
"does it hurt?"
before shooting up.
does it
does
it does.
--
So I'm not sure how to explain this. I'm tired of writing journals about this (I'll let you draw your own conclusions), so this will be one of the last times I mention it. A very abstract explanation, if you will. I'm starting to see change and it fascinates me and frightens me. I'm getting so much closer to what I've been looking for my entire life.
And I don't know who I'll be after the fact. We tend to attach ourselves to these sort of things.
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