What’s becoming of this tired brain?
I sit and shake and yet I can’t explain the feeling.
Perhaps I’m in a meadow of many unique and sprouting flowers,
And I die slowly in the afternoon sun, waiting to be uprooted.
I wait upon an attentive farmer
I can’t help but spoil the picture
Whether his hands be soft or course,
I pray only for swiftness.
Some men wonder how much they can break till they shatter
Instead I fuss over how I’ve reassembled the pieces.
Is this cheap glue so obvious?
Do they strain to ignore the cracks in foundation.
I still grow weary at the reflection
What a sad, sick dog I’ve become
Blind and toothless, yet fiercely loyal.
Put me to sleep, convince me it’s mercy.
I’ve grown bitter of these stale, stilted metaphors.
I often wonder if I should simply abandon this old sense of wonder.
Lay instead bricks at your feet,
Something that will never struggle to relay it’s message.
I’ve had little success in finding substance,
I feel like cement is filling in the creases.
I admit to a self inflicted bliss,
I lay myself bare so that I may be picked clean.
I wish I could push you all away
I know deep down this disease will infect you too
You are a clean glass of water,
I am crystal clear poison.
So show me no affection
Don’t let me crave that feeling.
I can’t spend these good years trying to grasp it,
It is cold wind to cut through my fingers.
So I’ll stand at your doorstep.
In late December, hoping I’m let in.
The snow falls till it muffles my knocking,
Listen close, it forms a steady rhythm.
It’s the song I’ll never be, but know you’d rather sing.