said to myself that all hope wasn't lost
but i got carried away
again.
like a worm being digested
in the stomach of a mother robin.
flown back to the nest and
fed to the naked
baby
birds
and i may have been wrong because you're in love with another.
and i'm probably not strong enough
to carry you on my back because
you've got you're own shit to deal with
and it's been dealt to you with a wooden spoon,
but i promise i'll always hold your hand
and we can walk side by side
like the cliche'd songs we used to sing
our voices carry like bathtub bubbles
on the fourth of july
but i came so close
and i've been searching for the real
meaning of columbus day, 1979
and i miss your stupid laugh
and i miss the way you complain
and i miss the way you tell me about all the new boys in your life
when i keep slowly falling in love with every word you say
as it flows from your mouth and dribbles off your chin.
and i'll always be there to take it in.
I'm fucking hopeless.
About Me
- Heath
- 18 Yakima-Calcutta This blog is maintained to keep in contact with my family and loved ones while i'm in calcutta india.
4 comments:
so i
question everythig about the connections between our heads and our mouths and our hands an our hearts.
wonder if there are secret tunnels and passageways hidden throughout my body that i have yet to uncover. wonder if at the end of one of those tunnels i'll find a secret that will give me strength enough to either hold on forever and give up and be done. i wonder if maybe we're all fucked up and trying to figure things out. if we'll always be like that. i take sips of wine. cups of wine. bottles of wine. to try and find answers. it always seems like i'm really close. love. fuck. i wake up and look in the mirror and one of those two words are all i feel. russian ruelette of the worst kind. where you don't risk dying. you just risk a life of pain any misery or a one-shot chance at love. but the kind that whistles your favorite song from the other room. or says the meanest things in the cutest ways. the kind that hides between every line and word of the saddest bright eyes songs. the kind you tattoo on your body and etch onto wood. what the fuck am i saying. i'm saying that i'd sooner play russian ruelette for the rest of my life in hopes of finding one of those secret tunnels under my skin, than hide in this cage of a world wondering if i missed it.
i love you.
and so,
the romantic in me would sooner die than give up something perfect. and i was thinking about perfection. how maybe it's different for two different people. but, thats kind of irrelevant. if everything in me is exploding at the idea of something that beautiful, then i have to believe that it really is that beautiful. that it would really make me happy. and i guess whether or not i can find hope, i can at least cling to the idea that maybe that perfection could exist. that maybe if i hold onto it tight enough, it will become real. fuck. what am i saying again.
someone lovely sent me a quote.
i'll try and quote it semi-accurately.
"jump off the edge, build your wings on the way down."
i don't want to ruin it by commenting on it. i guess come to your own conclusion.
i love you again.
"and i miss the way you tell me about all the new boys in your life
when i keep slowly falling in love with every word you say"
i could read this forever and cry. and i couldn't describe to you something i believed in, as much as a love that says something like this.
there are no such thing as hopeless boys.
there is no such thing as
hopeless love.
i think sometimes love is so big there is no room for hope.
i love you, take three.
so i thought about what you said. and by that i mean i can't stop thinking about it.
God, heath, i don't know. I went to the top of the world this morning and climbed halfway down the mountain and sat on a rock and made polaroid bushes and pretended i didn't exist and tried to figure out love. And all I had when I got to the top was lungs empty of breath.
I guess I don't know how much there is to discover about it. I laugh at people who spend there whole lives devoted to finding some silly artifact or searching for intellectual gain. or this or that.
and yet, i need to figure out love. i need to write it down on the chalkboard until i am writing with blood. i need to whisper it under my breath until my tongue is cut out for crimes against a "normal" society. and i guess, i take comfort in your struggle, because to me it is not worthless. to me it is not hopeless. or maybe it is both of these things. so maybe we can't know.
but i can't believe we shouldn't try.
i can't.
i hope you believe in me
like i believe in you.
i love you. i'll stop.
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