Hurt Like You

The grass is greener somewhere ahead. But half the time I'm walking backwards.

Past, present, and future king

And when he walks the earth, the forests parts like the sea in wide curling waves, rocks and trees falling by the wayside.

Roots curl from his path. Dirt and sand pulling away until only stone remains.

The earth cracks and it emerges from the very mantle like Atlantis from the deeps.

Smoking spires stand tall on soft walls cooling in the breeze. The smell of luckless underbrush permeates the air with it's sizzling screams.

Once he reaches the steps it is solid beneath his feet. A new palace and old king.

If you hurt over every little thing, all you'll ever do is hurt

We’ve spent so much time describing people as beautiful things, I think it’s time we try describing things as beautiful people.

I spent so much time trying to tell you how much you look like the sky.

I was wrong, the sky looks like you.

I want to learn to love like you

I don't consider myself particularly religious.

But I think I might understand why rural areas are so full of superstition.

Not out of an antiquated idea of ignorance.

But because if you've ever seen dawn bleed red into the dying breath of a bright white night, then you'd know God too.

I want to know what you hold close when your feeling empty

I want to know what you claw together and stuff into your empty chest like cotton in a corpse.

When your numb and dead and there's nothing left what keeps your shape?

Is it worth it, This thing your clinging to?

Does it make you more human? Does it break the numbness?

When every piece of you is dead and gone what should I expect?

It drips and splatters over her forearms. Crusting along each delicate finger joint and congealing where it packed into the curve of each cuticle. Painting her skin gray like the dust of age and time.

It drips onto her shoes and stains the hem of her shirt. It falls in spinning splatters to soak the denim of her jeans in thick drops.

In this mess, she gives birth to something new. There, by the potter's wheel.

Cauterized

We hear the story of Icarus and paint it as a tragedy. We see his ambition as his ultimate downfall. He loved too much, tried too hard, flew too high. He burned up in his own pursuit of the sun. Never reaching her surface. He failed, he fell, he died. Icarus caught fire in the most glorious of spectacles as he fell back to earth. Surpassing his own goals to touch the sun in the simple quest to feel something more. Something outside the confines of our logical reality. He caught fire and burned out, bathing the earth in bright blinding light. Becoming the object of his desires. And still, we whisper in piteous tone a show of ignorance in its self. Because we don't understand the man who became a star.