The trouble with poetry is that it lets me dress it up. It lets me change a word here, a word there… and then the truth is no longer intact. Everything is slightly off.
Guilt becomes betrayal. Loneliness twists into heartbreak. Fascination exaggerates itself into obsession.
I find it hard to break this habit. Conversations become clouded with words from my daydreams. I say things I don’t mean to, and bite my tongue when I should really spill my guts.
I want to take delight in all these crazy dreams. When you create the most beautiful and extraordinary and impossible fantasies, and every now and then they come true… it gives you hope that absolutely anything can happen. I wouldn’t be me without these airy nothings that occasionally turn into something magical.
I have too much energy. I’m the conductor taking the brunt of the lightning and guiding the melodic motion of the thunder. The harmonic cadence of an emotional electrical storm.
It wears me out but it keeps me going. I can’t bear to be anchored. I need to fly alongside the squall line.
À la belle étoile. How can you look at the sky and still think we should be confined to ourselves? The clouds pause for no one.
The moon reflects sunlight upon the clouds that try to frame it as they drift past, unworried. The stars flicker off and on like light shining through tiny holes in a dark velvet curtain that is swaying slightly in the breeze. You’re inside my mind when you read any of my words.
You see only what the narrator chooses to share. While you’re staring at the sky, lives are being lived (and wasted and lost) and you will never, ever see in. But you can share this with me.