Sweet soul, you might be angry or sad. Please have compassion for me. I break things. I don't trust sometimes and I'm still learning how to trust myself. As solid as I am, I'm also so soft. So sensitive. Needing things impetuously and warily. Grateful yet wondering. Waiting for the shoe to drop. Well I tossed the old bugger didn't I? Ripped it from the roots. A lonely insole floating in the same space lost socks do.
Pity me if you will, whatever might get through to that part of you that you're still mending, might always be mending. It's hard.
It keeps things interesting, at least. I try to spin it.
We mend on the go, in the dark nights after long, exhausting weeks. Amidst crowds, circles, crickets. S p a c e. We have more in common than maybe either of us let on (words say less than knowing, feeling does).
And the to-do lists and the ambition and the hunger to run won't ever let up, I reckon. Blinded by this life.
I misrepresented myself. Or maybe it was just that I was perfectly honest, entirely too vulnerable, showing you the little parts that are otherwise displayed after some time. I tend to do that, work in reverse. Sew it back up. And really, I don't show much at all, shy somehow. Cut me open.
Like a gordian knot in pandora's box.
The irony is that while I don't entirely trust men, I'm all-too gullible. I take people at face value in one moment (and turn around and declare the whole racket a conspiracy). It's not an issue, it's who I am.
You threw these contradictions in my face and as subtle as the toss, it landed; as if anyone is perfectly clear on the inside. As if anyone can stand there with feelings swirling and turn their cheek in denial of a little brokenness. Maybe you do, or maybe you just didn't want to catch it.
Oh, I weave. Imagination for days. It's my bread and butter. The vege meat and potatoes of that landscape that, with the passing of time, gets broader and broader, harder and harder to pin down, share in reasonable stretches of time. It's probably why people used to settle down so soon. Less to drag into the whole shebang. Doesn't matter does it, you still keep painting; hills, forests, mountains, valleys, oceans.
And me, I can unpack for the rest of my life. But I also have so much on my plate. So maybe no, I can't unpack (oh but that's where IT is). I have to keep going. And life -- that getting to know, learn, understand; it's really just holding all the bits of yourself together as little trinkets, memories, inside jokes; each one valuable whether beautiful or ugly. Finding hope in the possibility that at the end of the day, you are the one you've been waiting for. Forgetfulness and scrapbooks and all.
It seems so easy for other people. It's never really easy for me. Or if it is, I drop it and run as fast as I can. Me and everyone else....
This was different. Clear yet foggy. Tense yet clear. I had to shake it up. Take control somehow. Take back my gift. It was too good. Too soon. I'm impatient. Hasty. Full of grace yet graceless in the moment passion knocks on my heart, or simply knocks my head off my shoulders. Perhaps this lesson learned can be returned, rewound. For real this time.
Perhaps its good exists only in the future. At some far-off destination where it belongs. With the right one.
So I guess we'll stand with loneliness in our hands, for a bit, for a while. For however long it takes to take back the reigns and with a little more ease, relinquish control in just the right way.
Pity me if you will, whatever might get through to that part of you that you're still mending, might always be mending. It's hard.
It keeps things interesting, at least. I try to spin it.
We mend on the go, in the dark nights after long, exhausting weeks. Amidst crowds, circles, crickets. S p a c e. We have more in common than maybe either of us let on (words say less than knowing, feeling does).
And the to-do lists and the ambition and the hunger to run won't ever let up, I reckon. Blinded by this life.
I misrepresented myself. Or maybe it was just that I was perfectly honest, entirely too vulnerable, showing you the little parts that are otherwise displayed after some time. I tend to do that, work in reverse. Sew it back up. And really, I don't show much at all, shy somehow. Cut me open.
Like a gordian knot in pandora's box.
The irony is that while I don't entirely trust men, I'm all-too gullible. I take people at face value in one moment (and turn around and declare the whole racket a conspiracy). It's not an issue, it's who I am.
You threw these contradictions in my face and as subtle as the toss, it landed; as if anyone is perfectly clear on the inside. As if anyone can stand there with feelings swirling and turn their cheek in denial of a little brokenness. Maybe you do, or maybe you just didn't want to catch it.
Oh, I weave. Imagination for days. It's my bread and butter. The vege meat and potatoes of that landscape that, with the passing of time, gets broader and broader, harder and harder to pin down, share in reasonable stretches of time. It's probably why people used to settle down so soon. Less to drag into the whole shebang. Doesn't matter does it, you still keep painting; hills, forests, mountains, valleys, oceans.
And me, I can unpack for the rest of my life. But I also have so much on my plate. So maybe no, I can't unpack (oh but that's where IT is). I have to keep going. And life -- that getting to know, learn, understand; it's really just holding all the bits of yourself together as little trinkets, memories, inside jokes; each one valuable whether beautiful or ugly. Finding hope in the possibility that at the end of the day, you are the one you've been waiting for. Forgetfulness and scrapbooks and all.
It seems so easy for other people. It's never really easy for me. Or if it is, I drop it and run as fast as I can. Me and everyone else....
This was different. Clear yet foggy. Tense yet clear. I had to shake it up. Take control somehow. Take back my gift. It was too good. Too soon. I'm impatient. Hasty. Full of grace yet graceless in the moment passion knocks on my heart, or simply knocks my head off my shoulders. Perhaps this lesson learned can be returned, rewound. For real this time.
Perhaps its good exists only in the future. At some far-off destination where it belongs. With the right one.
So I guess we'll stand with loneliness in our hands, for a bit, for a while. For however long it takes to take back the reigns and with a little more ease, relinquish control in just the right way.
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