I Want To Write You An Escape.
I want to write you an escape.
A pocket of happy time and space.
Where you're okay.
In the mountains, in a tree, in a nothing of muted pastels.
Just somewhere where you can sing,
and your fingers don't sting from strumming.
And our lungs can go on for forever.
I can write up that sort of escape with ink and paper and imagination.
The clouds would be puffy, and grass would be wet beneath our bare feet.
The longing and worry and confusion of yesterday would slip through our fingers.
We’d watch the drops puddle and tumble and fall through the cracks out of existence.
We would stay and it falls away.
And the rain blows and the wind smiles and the leaves sing.
Nothing makes any sense, but we are safe.
Yet that place, it's not...real.
The world collapses around us and I am left with ink on paper that I can't see clearly.
Your eyes are downcast and clouded.
You can’t see my words.
I don’t know how to cocoon you in that existence.
But then you take my hand and we run away.
And we make our own escape of flesh and blood and brick.
We joke in puddles of blankets and you play your ukulele.
And yet we have to leave for the bathroom.
The conversation is jolted and a little awkward at times.
Your fingers grow tired, and strings get off key, but we are here.
We made it.
And it's just the sort of escape we needed.
More Posts from Bustlingblankverse and Others
Ough you go to therapy you take your meds you learn to drive you make friends you graduate college you get a dog you rent a cute apartment you learn to love properly and then one person says something and it makes you feel like a kid again, alone on the swing
marie howe, in an interview with krista tippett of on being
#192
It's just one of those days
All things look the same
But nothing feels quite safe.
I'm scrounging for a sense of security.
So I'll wear a friends old t-shirt
And strum until my fingers hurt
And wash until my brain just works.
Little things are the start to stability.
Anyway here’s a poem I wrote about my cat
After “Do not stand at my grave and weep”, author disputed:
Do not stand at your bowl and meow. I gave you food. It’s in there now. I feed you at the dawning light, I feed you at the fall of night. I feed you kibbles mixed with meat And wet food for a special treat. I feed you even though you scoff At all the food within your trough. I feed you and still yet you yell Like as a beast from deepest hell. Do not stand at your bowl and cry. I gave you food. You will not die.
I’m gnashing my teeth like a child of Cain
If this is a prison I’m willing to bite my own chain
dandelions are magic. literally tiny suns in the grass that turn into the moon and then the stars when you blow on them. fucking insane.
A lot of people ask me what my biggest fear is, or what scares me most. And I know they expect an answer like heights, or closed spaces, or people dressed like animals, but how do I tell them that when I was 17 I took a class called Relationships For Life and I learned that most people fall out of love for the same reasons they fell in it. That their lover’s once endearing stubbornness has now become refusal to compromise and their one track mind is now immaturity and their bad habits that you once adored is now money down the drain. Their spontaneity becomes reckless and irresponsible and their feet up on your dash is no longer sexy, just another distraction in your busy life. Nothing saddens and scares me like the thought that I can become ugly to someone who once thought all the stars were in my eyes.
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