1 pointI want to write something real, Something worth more than Dark doorways and empty rooms, Broken light bulbs that will never glow again. I’m stuck in the gear rooms, The wheelhouse and all the springs and screws Are rusted shut, but it’s like I thought I could keep them turning. We’re both running Out of time and memory and the words Are only echoes now. I know time weathers all things but I thought that my parchment Would never turn yellow, curl up at the edges, That the ink would never dry. I’m trying too hard To bring the words back, make them sound good Against each other and flow like rivers Or maybe magic, until they reach an end. Then maybe I can rest, assured Because I’ll have written something That has a meaning And isn’t only soulless noise.
1 pointlet my walls crumble even if I am tossed beneath the columns the rubble of what I was once constructed of the remains of my potential, all my what-ifs and coulds and shoulds red-smeared marble is impure crumpled; unnatural in texture corinthian carvings etched onto my skull for now I see through the glass darkly and commaless phrases only add my dearest to my destruction of structure the demolition of myself from the inside daggers wedged below my skin since childhood cloaked phrases swim below the surface there is beauty in destruction in pain in ruins no candles to light the way to the top sparks must come from somewhere else one by night two by water maybe the sparks have died when they touch the ground dew-coated grass smothering the small infinity of an explosion my walls will fall from within