As The RedBird Flies

I have posted so many terrible things and I am so sorry.

I’m going to do my best to shift this back to a writing blog and not a rant blog.

It’s been too long since I wrote something I actually like.

poetinside:

What if my only options are to be either stable and contented but never have anything interesting to write about or terrifically depressed and highly prolific?

A man who locks the door behind himself every night
hoping that someone will try to break it and
Then he will get a true sense of what life is worth as he
Stares into the black hole at the end of a gun.

At the same time someone opens their eyes and it’s the middle of the night and
They don’t know what to do with themselves.
Sleep is for the weary - and they are the most of that,
But often they are overlooked.
They are hunched dark shapes,
Smears on a landscape.
Aimless wonderers.

Late-night scotch drinkers because the silence of the night is better when filled with clinking of you won’t remember against the glass.

In a dark bedroom hands explore skin
Someone breathes heavily
The planet folds in on itself
And they fall back against the sheets alone,
Feeling the ache of their only friend.

A man who locks his door behind himself
Because he is afraid that some day someone will try to break it,
And he’ll have to adjust his way of living
His understanding of his surroundings
His values
His mindset
Himself.
Because these things are supposed to change people irrevocably.
But change is hard.
He’s grown accustomed to locking the door,
And the click is comforting.
He hears it in his ears when he lays down to sleep.

“How are you?” He asks and
Every time, she says
“Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful!”
Every time.
It makes me wonder what she hides
Behind that hair net and smile.

We’re so close, I swear I could open my eyes and you’ll be there,
Lying on your stomach, mouth slightly open, snoring a little like a big fuckin’ kid.
I know you won’t be, but
Feels good all the same.

A young woman coveting the hours she cannot sleep because a little bird sings in her breast and she fears, should she close her eyes, it will fly away into the night and not return for many days.
That’s the trick, isn’t it.
As soon as her fingers close around it,
It is gone.

She lays in bed awake
The beam of light through her heart burning too bright for sleep,
Illuminated by the strength of his words.

I want to be there
Sober when you’ve drunk a little,
And you smile and I can cradle your head in my lap and
You laugh at little things and
Tell me the thoughts on the tip of your tongue.
They teeter softly, loosened by the flow of liquid,
And I catch them before they hit the floor,
Sticking them in a pocket to sneak a peak at later when you sleep.

I keep hearing you say

- I need a reason not to blow my own brains out -

In the back of my mind,
And.

I got nothing.
Except that I’d sure miss being stuck in a car together for four hours singing at the top of our lungs like everyone’s listening.

I said I didn’t care,
But that’s only sometimes, when I can manage it.
But you probably already knew that.

Life sucks :)
It is pretty funny, when you look at it that way.