Stifle
this force, to see us rebel.
Give
us wings, to watch us fly.
We
race against time, speaking as softly—as doves of flames; to cherish this
voice, to hear it wail, for the silence of the living-room.
The
walls are melting. Our palms suffer malnutrition. The ceiling is bleeding
whispers.
Oh
for freedom, this elusive vice, as precious as swans, as cryptic as psychiatry.
We
broke links, where hell broke loose and no one’s wrong; oh if it was, this myth
in chains, to hate the one we’ve scorned; as one infallible, this would die
phoenix, suffering truths; and so analytical and so partial to a theory that we
dare not apply to self.
My
gracious friend—the nights are gentle, saturated in melancholy; but oh the
nights, to sit alone, as one to feel—this inner force, that heat of rebellion,
to play it out in series; to know a reply, these grounds of training, the birds
breaking free; in which is life, ever to hear it, to know, I can’t but fly. Mirrors
become teachers—as we float through lines, as we kneel near brooks; for oh this
living-room, a vault of secrets, a wealth of distrust; where it must be others, for I’m never wrong, as one destined for
perfection—despite the outcomes, despite the facts, for nothing matters aside for being right. What for mystery, science, even life?
These faculties—embedded in a psyche, where birds raise their hands, in torn
frequencies, this inward challenge, to agree, while gritting softly; for it
rarely hears, the wings of justice, to rarely feel the deepest comforts; but
know for broken, these infrequent laws, where chaos hampers communication; to
one’s detriment, to ask the same question, Why
are you so quiet, even so distant? This becomes our price, for speaking
back, where one is volatile; and this becomes inheritance, where adults rarely
speak, of more than the latest fads; but it’s worth it, for I’m forever right.
The
word love—as such vehicle, to finally speak of ghosts; to fly so grayly, the
psychology of pain, in need of a therapist; in which for stress, to unlock
demons, that roar through psychic valleys: to hate and love and mourn and cry
and plead for whys? We see addictions, plus addiction, to this
need to control the absent feelings. Oh to rage, as one rebellious, to die in
degrees; where silence is law, but one must speak, to say it as they heard it;
its total joy, buried in melancholy, where the child is screaming, in an
unheard voice. The glass has
shattered; and oh such pain—to know the following: We do not see you as you envision yourself; we see hell!
