manic at best.this is mysymphony; a chorus ofbirds that don't existand the s y n co patio nof bruises on mythighs.here is where isign out– the cap off of thebottle and the bloodout of myarms. it's like catch andrelease, and here iam, letting it allgo.
The Heavenly DanceThe stars fell around usAnd settled on our shouldersAs we stared into one another's eyesAnd in that momentWe understood eachotherThe stars then swirled anewCreating a magnificent dress for youAnd you took my handAnd led the danceWeaving in and out of timeLike the threads connecting our mindsAnd heartsYou told me we could neverDrift apartAnd I believe you
/ we smile at the universe with ashes on our lips. there are boats inside of our veins. the blood is a metaphor and, hell, i can't even begin to write about her. i could tell any story. if i wanted, i could write a novel about my mother and how beautiful she was a sixteen or i could make a lighthouse a person, but i cannot tell you the color or her eyes. it's that that i don't know it; i just can't tell you. it's not a color, it's a place. her eyes are like Chicago. there's life and lights and lakes, but there's a sadness, too. even so, it's a happy kind of sad. the kind that gives you hope. sometimes when i'm high i think that i'm dead, because i get numb. not physically senseless, but just mentally dazed. i forget where i am. i like that. it seems sometimes like i am a place, i am all the street signs and the cracks in the road and badly painted house down the way. see the really faint dot on the map? that's me. scribb