I am always too long winded, every sentence is run on. Sometimes my words dont rhyme, sometimes my heart can't keep time. Sometimes I write with my breath held within me. Like I could lose the thought by breathing it out. This is a stream of consciousness that flows like a river, or rolls in like the tide, whats the worth of time and why can't I abide? Have your thoughts ever been so heavy that they could no longer be carried, that you would say to anyone "what if we married? maybe you have some space on your back for the yoke of my problems?" This is why I don't date. To quote my favorite Fiona Apple song, I thought I was a man, but I'm just a little boy. Everyone is smarter than me, everyone has twice struggle and they carry it without trouble, so I must be the troubled. Everyone else has popped their bubble, so together they might together huddle, but the inside of my thoughts smells like beer stains and dope. It smells like I lost my hope. But I do hope, and pray, every day. I send smoke signals to lovers and old friends, dont you want to see how this one ends? Sometimes I think moms are the only ones patient enough for me. Maybe something about the indescribable pain and relief of giving birth connects them to this earth. Fathers don't occur naturally, they are beings of choice, but I doubt I'll ever choose myself. I lack the wealth to care for humans how they deserve to be cared for, and so do so many, but they choose to bring that life anyway. I never want to hurt anyone, so why does my mom cry at my words, why does she always choose birds. Is it cause before me she could fly, maybe when she's alone she still can, but locked herself to three men whose feet are frozen to the ground. Who better to raise a bastard that grows like a dastardly weed. Some of the best people I know are bastards, such that the word has never been an insult. I couldn't comprehend why someone would choose not to love someone for an accident of birth, we just don't have enough time on this earth, to let the barriers we made on our own divide us. I came out to my grandmother and she asked me what bi meant, and I told her the truth and she sent me a gift of memories, her own way of telling me she sees and still believes. If magical thinking doesn't work, how is it that I've tricked me into loving myself again, or wait is that conceited, I'm sorry I thought that was what I needed, but maybe I'm the type that always needs more, an emotional whore, selling my feelings for pennies and nickels, never worried about the reaper's sickle. I'd love to be more than what I am, but want to believe that what I am is enough, I promise I'm not tripping over green stuff, unless I'm running through the woods, but I rarely run anymore, most often I walk, I've got time enough to talk, I whine enough to write, and if my meds were right I'd sleep at night, dreaming of you instead of staring at the ceiling yearning for you. I tried to count the ways in which I was right today, not correct but morally erect. If someone told me there day and had done what I had done, I'd convince them they were one of the best, so why do I feel guilty every time my body rests. How am I condemned by my own pride, yet feel as though no one's on my side. It's so much easier to hide. When you're capable of loving everyone, everyone fears what the love you offer means, is it a door into my castle, or just a peak behind the scenes. I flinch when love is offered, but ask for it all the time, I know I can't drink this away, but I'd love to try with wine.
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