Aliens Break Hearts
I am not a poet.
(you still aren't a tortured artist)
I have come to grips with Father time, as he slowly dissolves my mind into just another grain of sand for his morbid hourglass. As letters and numbers and rusty thoughts slip through thirsty fingers, I have cried over language and beauty and stories and sin that I only borrowed from the ground, the trees, the sky. I've spoken with Lady Luck, and she's assured me that her sister, Miss Fourtune, will be watching my impending case of self induced Alzheimers as it kills the memories I had of being happy (for lack of a better word). I've been lacking words a lot lately, as cliches and idioms and language dance their way away from me, as I lack even the words to make my pleading sound like anything other than desperate begging.
No, I am not a poet, sir, for angst ridden rhymes and paled words sewn together with broken and fragmented thoughts does not a poem make. No more than a mess of insecurities and a fit of hysteria, dabbed with a touch of smoke and mirrors, does a poet make.
I am not a poet. But if pretty words and smooth transitions, if foolish dreams and stars and moons, if that was all it would have taken to save you, I would have fueled your tortured body and masochistic soul with my blood and bones and scars and whatever I had left.
I am not a poet.
(but you're no longer alive)
(you still aren't a tortured artist)
I have come to grips with Father time, as he slowly dissolves my mind into just another grain of sand for his morbid hourglass. As letters and numbers and rusty thoughts slip through thirsty fingers, I have cried over language and beauty and stories and sin that I only borrowed from the ground, the trees, the sky. I've spoken with Lady Luck, and she's assured me that her sister, Miss Fourtune, will be watching my impending case of self induced Alzheimers as it kills the memories I had of being happy (for lack of a better word). I've been lacking words a lot lately, as cliches and idioms and language dance their way away from me, as I lack even the words to make my pleading sound like anything other than desperate begging.
No, I am not a poet, sir, for angst ridden rhymes and paled words sewn together with broken and fragmented thoughts does not a poem make. No more than a mess of insecurities and a fit of hysteria, dabbed with a touch of smoke and mirrors, does a poet make.
I am not a poet. But if pretty words and smooth transitions, if foolish dreams and stars and moons, if that was all it would have taken to save you, I would have fueled your tortured body and masochistic soul with my blood and bones and scars and whatever I had left.
I am not a poet.
(but you're no longer alive)
♠ ♠ ♠
Written for a friend.