I am probably not the first person to have felt this way, as if I am waiting for something.
The street lamp outside is placed strategically, it’s piercing bitter white light passes exactly through the inch long gap between the window panes and lands right on my face, ruining every hope of sleep. The rain is falling like dust, the wind blowing it in messy sheets that litter the empty roads and I am not being descriptive to be poetic,
I am describing the midnight darkness that kept me up, the restless ache inside me as I fought with the restlessness of being in love with nothing
My fingers are dark shadows on the keyboard, inside me lives a barren desert.
I think of a poett sitting at his coffee table maybe, he has a tattoo on his arm, In my head. A compilation of coloured glass pieces, something you’d get if you shattered a stained glass window with those Jesus and Mary portraits.
I will hold you like my secret, I have no one else to be in love with.
I am so bitter, and no one feels the way I do. I fear I come across as elitist, I don’t say I feel more, I just am tired of seeing through people. I haven’t found it yet, so I will love you, who won’t give me the time of the day. It’s not a celebrity crush. I pity you, because you feel what I feel, you’re a wonderboy too, only at the end of your life.
You will fall into the jaded soon, disappear within the rubric of human existence.
I’ll be alone again, in my mad world of dark sounds. I will be alone again in my tunnel.
Everything seems so bleak, Trapped in who I must be to survive and who I feel I am, in the utter abandonment of my skin.
There is nothing where my future was, I have a sudden terrible feeling that I am going to die. I don’t have a future, I won’t be a journalist or see the world.
I’ll go out, abruptly, a candle.
I know this with a ridiculous certainty, I don’t want to lose anyone I love.
I am stuck.
Slowly I am coming undone.
I think my poetry is a waste, there is no form. I don’t understand music, my poetry is not poetry, am I Lang leav? There are so many people I don’t want to be.
Oh how my thoughts spin me round,
How my thoughts they let me down.
Sometimes you sit and wonder why dreams change.
I try to recall a time when watching the rain fall would be romantic. I try to remember the simple dreams, try to imagine the tiny crushes heart shaped names and the butterflies in my stomach. When did love turn out to be so different from what they said it would be? When I think of butterflies, they’re always accompanied by a hundred voices reminding me I have acid in my stomach, little vials just waiting to burn it all to cinders.
Sometimes the longing to be simple is physically painful. To say yes, without thinking of consequences. To smile and receive the favours instead of slamming a wall down because you can feel the train tracks shaking, the steel rails reverberating, your train of thought crashing into you to remind you that you’re claustrophobic.
In slow motion you watch someone else’s life turn bitter because of you. You breathe, turn away and close the door. Peek through the curtains and swallow the regret when you watch them find happiness, safe, from you.
Every time I tell myself this is how it is supposed to be, I feel a twist in my gut.
Sometimes the real world takes me by surprise. I take a step back, puzzled. I thought I had already figured all of this out.
Yet, the vials break and the butterflies in my stomach die a painful death.