Nowhere left to run

You're everything I'm not.  You're the bullet and I'm just the shot.  You have wings and my arms are fraught with scars and bruises.

Why is my narrative composed of holes in the dark and worn skin?  Why do I sit alone in silence hoping for someone to come in?  All the decisions I've tried to make today feel empty and fickle.  Productivity tells me I'm not doing enough.  My inner insides tell squeeze at me like a clamp.  I want to flee from here.  I want to be okay with who I am.  I want to disappear and return as a new start.  I'm not suicidal, but the times just seem to be rolling waters.  What am I doing for others?  What am I doing for myself?  Am I really that cheap?

As the rest just pair off I wallow alone, as if drowning under sheets.  Alone, I've grown accustom to the things I hate about myself.  Hate is too strong a word; I'd never use it on anyone else.  I can't be myself though.  I can't be anyone.  I'm an imitation.  I'm a counterfeit representation.  No one here knows me because I don't want to admit to who I am.  I don't want to be myself because when I try it just comes out as trying to get something else.  The things that I say seem to be self-exploitation or attention seeking.  I'm not comfortable with myself and I despise comfortability.  I'm a thousand arrows pointed in different directions as the infinitesimal wheel of time rolls down the rocky stream.

Abandon the broken glass and you'll find me.

I want you to remember me.  Will you hold me?

Glowing Shadows

If and when you become a ghost, will you pine for me as I did for you in this life?  Will you haunt the shadows just wanting to be seen again?  Will the shivers down my spine be your tender fingertips?  Will you tell me you're still here?  If and when you're an invisible phantom will your presence still linger in the four chambers of my heart?  Will you dance under the moonlight, spinning tree limbs in the park?

If you're destined to be a whispering vision that is only felt by my third eye, will you tell me that it's you or will you just pass me by?  When I'm floating in a dream and your eyes are fixed on mine, will you crawl under the covers and simply pass the time?  You've haunted me my life entire and barely eluded my grasp.  You're a picture frame without a photo or a face without a name.  You're not a bank from which I withdraw, nor a vault where I deposit my intimate secrets.  You've eluded me because whenever I get close I notice my breathing and catch my breath while my heart's beating.

I'm a light fixture caught up tangled up in the branches, a flickering filament with no desire to burn away the leaves.  I'm a teapot seeking water, but my chamomile is sufficient.  Flowers and aged root have served their time in the soil and now await the scolding, purifying liquid.  Hot water doesn't burn me, it mixes and melts to make the perfect engine.

I'm a faraway land with no one beside me and I'm an inner peace that is hiding inside me.  I'm a bat among squirrels that fly by me.  I may not be sighted but my sonar will guide me.  The gifts I've been given will not ferment inside me.  I mustn't try and hide the gifts that You provide me.  I'm a whisper in the breeze and a blade of grass in the meadow.  Soon to the fire or perhaps in the storehouse you'll find me.  Until then, I'm translucent stained glass painted with pictures of Paradise.

Tell me who I Am once was.

Brief Incongruences

There are words I can't tell you because I don't even know if they're real or not yet.  There are words that have been dancing on my tongue's tip for months now.  It's never the right time but somehow we have to seize the day.  I come home every night with bags growing under my eyes and yet my eyes are sometimes further down the road than I am.  I find myself worrying about unnecessary battles because I want to be prepared and then I trip over my own two feet.  Then I study my shoelaces to see what I could have done better, only to miss the point the true point because it's already hovering over the horizon.

I want to tell you the words stuck inside me but I need more time.  I want to live today but I need more rhyme.  I want to not want so much but this lust is killing me one day at a time.  I shall not be in want, right?  So how do I practice such a word or proverb?  I often find myself becoming a product of the trees planted around me.  I haven't always wanted to be placed here.  The last couple of years have felt more like enduring than really living.  I tell people that I'm trying to make the most of it but I don't try as hard as I would like.  It's easier to stay inside.  It's much more simple to complain about the heat than it is to fix the air conditioning or to even turn it on.

I'm hurrying in my life to make things happen and then I rush into the important decisions.  I closely examine the pencil shavings and eraser marks and paint over the number on the account balance.  My eyes are far away and my hands are too close to my hips.  I need replacement surgery but of nothing in particular.  I need a motivational drive to keep me moving.  If I am to stay anywhere, it ought to be moving.

I'm nearly falling asleep and this has become next to nothing.  The ideas ran away again, perhaps they're hiding in my dreams.  A few sentences became sketches of oases but the rest seem incongruent, bland, and without substance or flavor.  I'll come back if God wills it.