Ques?ion

I was going through this little thing thing I've been doing for the past few years when I realized how sad I must seem. To be honest, I've considered deleting everything and starting fresh. I'm opting not to because, although I'm not proud of them, at a time I felt like they were worth something.

Your sentiments taste like sediment,
Your navel, rough gravel.
You lie to me.
Like ivory, you aren't worth the battle.

If all to me were darkness,
Bright Eyes would be sun and moon
and streetlight,
and moments,
and memories,
and melancholy,
and streets unnamed with stop signs to stall me,
and prop lights and fill lights and low angle shooting with baby blue tint and lavander backgrounds
where moments and future are one and the same and the game that we play means more than you know.

Where life and existence are you and only --
with dreams that morph into pirate ships
and sail into the sun burning forever for a moment.
Where talking to you is like stepping from crater to crater on the moon where they're few and far between.

Where, bleeding alcohol,
and crying hearts murmer,
for what is inside of me leaks out like teardrops
and stains your upholstery
I'm sorry, it's nothing,
but nothing in itself
is something all together.

And dreams are like movies
whose message stays with you
while everything else becomes
fragments of fiction,

and we as the characters
keep moving forward
while all I've ever wanted
is to sit on the grass
and nothing.

If Plato was one of the men staring at the wall, he would be the last to leave since he’d be the only one left thinking while everyone else reacted.

And there’s no value to that?

No.

Acorns and Cartoons.
Sidewalks and Stem Cells.
What and when life becomes,
All will, for nothing
More than a chance to live forever.

But roses and snowflakes
With lemon grass garnish
Need not strive for immortality,
For immortality is beauty alone.