the tiniest of insects
that fly through the air,
ideas: shadows of the sunshine,
buzzing around the moon,
as wolves howl from your lungs,
and black cats quietly whisper
in your ears in dreams.
what do you hear in the quiet?
rumbling clouds feel the thunder,
crazed tornadoes twist around a point
sealing the worries of all your devils
and the fear of those who want to die,
you try to be positive in the storm,
but it’s more important to be the storm.
i know you, and it scares you,
and so you run from yourself,
the cancer grows deeper,
and you wear the mask of the dead
excitement, fake smiles, lipstick,
emotionalism, grasping desire:
these are just final gasps for air,
these personal advertisements,
as if anyone could possibly care.
All you had to do is quietly be,
a strange poem only God reads,
to create a better day,
for yourself that is the world,
clear the broken glass and it shimmers,
all of it is what you are,
can’t you see the old children there,
sitting on the park bench,
withered leaves falling,
still waiting for the light to come,
for the world to convince them
it’s time to finally be themselves?
It’s never time
to be what you already are:
why are you looking for it
like a travel destination?
why do you sell everything you get,
for money or just attention?
words, the tiniest sounds
fall upon the ground,
dusty symbols of a living earth,
pieces of nothing buzzing around,
millions awaiting on the bench
for life to arrive.