I had fun writing this one. Mostly because it's full of double meanings that are for me to know, and you to enjoy, because you don't know what the heck I'm talking about. It sounds funny, and that's the part you should enjoy. It's kinda long.
"Logorrhea" on March 24, 12:22AM
Sing me a song.
Guide my hands
sprawled out over ebony and ivory
the little keys that tap taut strings
somewhere deep inside.
Pop! A message blows,
hurling news at an open window.
An orange light flickers, catching my eye.
Make me cry, pull me down, I'm going with you.
Make me laugh, build me up...
maybe I'll stand on mountains
A beating heart beside two music notes
sadly, isn't the way for me
But I smile, I laugh, I'll enjoy it.
Someday, someway, somehow.
We'll sway to beats
toe sound waves
to color.
We'll jump to the wires of whitecaps
and G-forces, I forbid you gravity to bring me down
back to you.
I am not a tetherball to be swung through the air on a chain
hit after hit only to wind myself around a stick,
rigid and cool...damp from morning dew
while silly children sing playground songs around me
like Indians reenacting their lives around a totem pole.
I am spiritual, neither wind nor air
nor the very laughter of brooks as they stumble over rocks
that once came from boys' hands, as they attempted to skip
one jump, two leaps, three skips, four hops, five...SPLASH
A roaring waterfall pours onto my head
it's called a shower, not a waterfall at all
I let myself be cleaned
smoke and haze wash over my mind
I slip on this rock slicked wet
so smooth, so white
ceramic.
Like your face, where it's chipped
and cracked in places
when toddlers eat leaded paint
of off crackling walls
leaking with water damage
Red pants, I see
and green pants there
floating, bobbing up and down.
Lonely and afraid in this big world we call home,
yet look above you and feel
so small as the revolving ceiling fan spins
like planets around a light.
A ball of gas that orbits around
in cold nothingness, much like your heart
though no light, no provider of heat
could make it a happy place.
Is that why you're so bitter?
Like ripe, pink grapefruits
prior to being dipped in salt and sugar
or maybe honey.
Honey on my lips is water to my soul
but honey is sticky, and water is not.
Water saves lives you know,
yet two dozen wings flew to make
the very honey which relaxes you
so much.
You're an abyss, I wish
for me to push my problems off a cliff
into your depths and never be buried
yet, the sound of a distant crash never comes.
You are an abyss
Your tongue is lava
hot, burning like the rocks that explode
before they take their cool,
up and out before reaching the ground
which, when they meet, they crumble.
At least they have a brief life, unlike I
who, as of this moment, lays back,
flat out, laid to dry,
And I'll cry...of boredom.
