What ever made you think
all of the stipulated sun fire
would lash in the shape
of another’s eyeball?
How could the world be any different than it already is from itself?
Even if a time machine was born tomorrow
I think it might opt out
stop itself from existing
before trying to fix any of the
leaks,
or shaky columns
stood upon by
shoes with stomped heels and
sockless toes.
Stray mountain,
stay until sunrise.
I’m in need of a
blanketed eclipse.
It doesn’t really matter to me
that the blue wanes.
The crescent solstice of moody wakefulness
barks madly at every passing misconception.
Startled, the whisper wanders.
Trying to find light in the logic,
fearing, worse,
that it was blacked out long ago.
What is it when a dandelion sings better than your previous stirring? How can I even write when I fear the very eyes that would be able to tell me whether or not I’m mad? I cannot begin to fathom the ways in which a cloud turns and does not regret turning in the first place. What does it matter if it avoids the rain? A stray piece of lightning, or a thunder’s quiet aftershock will inevitably break apart the majestic puffy balance of the whole. Eleven hours later and there is no need for worry. It is another day, and that day comes with its worries. There should always be a Tuesday part two, where we get to go over the day with a thin pronged comb, try to even out the messes left on the table, on our brows. Even if you feel as if you did all you could, we have always been told to double check our work, just to be sure we didn’t leave any questions unanswered. “But still, I do not wish to look back.” Well some of us do, so why don’t you take the day to get some extra sleep? “I do not think there is anything for me in the land of my dreams.” You are sadly mistaken. Many desires that will forever go unfulfilled lie in wait for the sleeping ball of blue. And so what if the fine tuning of a day lasts forever? Who are you to decide for me that I should not repeat the same day in order to get it just right, just the way I want it to go? Why should I just go with the flow of you? Time, you’re an asshole. You always have been. No one wants to say it anymore, they just want to adapt, as is their nature, MY nature. I don’t want to. I want to go against your stupid endless flow and make my own god damn river, and you’re a huge dickbag for not letting me. I get that you’re bigger and more powerful, and no one can stop you. I don’t care. You’re already going to kill me, so I might as well take some of you out of my day to call you on your bullshit. I can’t believe you.
Skip ahead to the final moments when I realize it was all for nothing. You’re just waiting for the final, breathless punchline to tie a pretty pink bow around your perfect little joke. I get it. Haha.
You’re so predictable, it hurts. When will you finally get tired of seeing me hurt? When is it my turn? When do i get to punch a clock in its stupid face and hear you say “ow”?
I could drink. I did smoke. I don’t want to do either, really. There are a million things I would like to do. Because of you, I either can’t do them, or am to afraid to do them, for fear of losing my roof and my bread.
People don’t deserve to be evil. You just force it upon them and laugh till your sides split, opening up more room for the bitter, smoke-laden countdown to never.
If I had a pocketwatch, I would turn it back and just pretend. Even the idea of stealing back what you’ve taken from me is more satisfying than spending another one of your overpriced seconds.
wishfinger 