Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Beg My Heart to Turn Off

The sock is on the other foot and the questions still pummel in, but only while life is on intermission because during the show, we're all in our spots. The passion is there and you can feel it coursing through the sheets but actions always speak louder then words so little actions will have to do to create little voices and little voices with vocal cords that want to say all the things they cannot say and the body has become a vessel of messed up idealistic. The morals, evident. The wants, powerful. The soul, comfortable. You idiot, with your ways and quirks, a disfigured sort of friendship that still has our teeth in it. I'm surprised. You might be too. Things keep happening, as if we've forgot but I haven't - as much as I plead my brain to write you off and beg my heart to just turn off, as much as I aim my passion to a heavier notion of sorts. My magnetic items find your lingering fingers off the edge of beds, in between slurps and sleeps and feet and video games. All too familiar. All just the same. Breaking bones like hearts and getting fragments of what so easily comes in places usually so hard to get to you but in this case, wide open/ on sale. Tired eyes, please tell me I'm dreaming. The head and heart ache isn't worth this funny but the feeling in the moment and the length of that moment stretched over my body like a cool sheet in the summer pricks me skin with an uncanny irony of realism, actuality and the phonies of it. Selfish little people, pretending everything would work in their favor. But while it doesn't happen, we betray our racks of adoration for stealing moments, exchanging clothing, sleeping comfortably, and the loudness in the stares and glares, dance moves and smiles. The enchanting chaotic failure redemption of this heart, stopped. 

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