epitaph
This is for the girl with a lifetimes pain behind a timeless mask.
This is for the girl who screamed with every subtle cut and twist as her bloodied raw fingers plucked another shard from her heart.
This is for the tears welling up like like pools of rain flooding up through the green-hued moss-rainbow on the rainforest floor.
This is not a crush,
this is not a love poem,
this is just my words as I listen to your poetry,
listen to your music and
plagiarize your emotions.
I suppose this is some kind of tribute some kind of empathy some kind of... understanding.
This is for the selfishness that hides behind bottled up fears and emotional dysregulation,
As you weave your words like paintings masked in dust from centuries of raw wit and dirt I feel the rhythm beating in a heart that has moved on beyond the constellations and supernova's of its past. Of *course* it has; the present is always the past, life's greatest gift of eternal torment. The wounds that never heal but somehow cease to matter as the heart pumps stronger or the skin masks the gaping chasm with a fibrous armor like so many patches on the hull of a canoe struggling to stay above water.
I feel your courage, your strength like the fractured exoskeleton of a crushed insect that crunches between your fingers long after the life is stilled within it's shell. The sharp edges resisting, battling on in the afterlife, digging in and entrenching themselves in the flesh of your fingers for a second before giving way. On some microscopic scale this is the tympani in a flute-driven overture. As slowly and steadily as destruction happens hope begins to spring anew.
It's been a while.
This is for the girl who screamed with every subtle cut and twist as her bloodied raw fingers plucked another shard from her heart.
This is for the tears welling up like like pools of rain flooding up through the green-hued moss-rainbow on the rainforest floor.
This is not a crush,
this is not a love poem,
this is just my words as I listen to your poetry,
listen to your music and
plagiarize your emotions.
I suppose this is some kind of tribute some kind of empathy some kind of... understanding.
This is for the selfishness that hides behind bottled up fears and emotional dysregulation,
As you weave your words like paintings masked in dust from centuries of raw wit and dirt I feel the rhythm beating in a heart that has moved on beyond the constellations and supernova's of its past. Of *course* it has; the present is always the past, life's greatest gift of eternal torment. The wounds that never heal but somehow cease to matter as the heart pumps stronger or the skin masks the gaping chasm with a fibrous armor like so many patches on the hull of a canoe struggling to stay above water.
I feel your courage, your strength like the fractured exoskeleton of a crushed insect that crunches between your fingers long after the life is stilled within it's shell. The sharp edges resisting, battling on in the afterlife, digging in and entrenching themselves in the flesh of your fingers for a second before giving way. On some microscopic scale this is the tympani in a flute-driven overture. As slowly and steadily as destruction happens hope begins to spring anew.
It's been a while.
stressed