softenthe (fall)

I think you’ve done just about enough

at times i
still remember
what it feels like
to yearnandburn
for silence
with the tension
in my throat
it’s a crunching(grinding)
can’t quite swallow-ing
and these
pupils should dilate
knowing of
takethisforgranted
but i still push
for those
rocks in my throat
just to feel
that tension
that pull

<3

hoodoothatvoodoo:

Polaroid by Andy Warhol

(via hollyhocksandtulips)

with each day
that passes
i forget
more of your
fingertips
more of what
they were
more of what
this was

and the
more
that i forget
the more
that i feel
a sick(prickling)
in the
ball of mylungs

i thought i would
keep you (all)ways
but your
fingerprint fades
gradually(frantically)
from what may
have been left here,
on the movie screen
of the inside of
my skin

these mouths runn
in circles(spinspinspin)
there is no
prep aration
made for thesehours
of letters you youyou
because i don’t
want to think it
why not just
sunshine on pavement
why must it
always come back
to you

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And I knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!
I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I’ll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

- e.e. cummings

i try to imagine what they would look like or how they would get here. i can’t help but feel like if they were to actually rise it would be nothing that ever could have been imagined, nothing. or maybe the ground will crack like porcelain and they’ll simply crawl out with hunched backs and fowl smells though the horse hooves seem far-fetched.  skulking through the streets while the skin on their fingers shaves away with each dragging step. because maybe i’ll just go outside on a regular day to have a regular smoke and the earth will crack beneath my feet. or maybe they’re just a fictional myth the scare us into our houses and forcefully being “good”
i don’t know and i don’t know that i want to understand.