Presently UntitledI went walking and I found I had a million things to say. But when you came to see me I was full and naught. The words will not come right, I think I'm done with words. I think I'm done with trying hands at greatness. I am always in the middle, mediocre kid. My eyes are full with days as I struggle with hands behind my breast. The swelling in my lungs, I feel it here. I am tied down. I am tied down. I need to leave this place or I will lose my mind.Can I find myself lifted? I sit in new corners of this all too familiar everyday and paint my hunger onto pastel pinups. My sketchpad fills with things I'll never be, persons and people I will never be. I could die right now and leave this unfulfilled. I could take a breath and swallow pills. I could dress myself in finest blues and greys to welcome the coming haze. Some part of me says this is what to do. Some part of me says you'd sleep with me, too.I've made a hundred resolutions these few days, but this I think is most resolved. I'm do
swearI promise that my promisesare true. I swear I won'tbeguile or hide a part fromme from you, nor tear myselfin half. this is my heart: inpieces yet intact. this is myheart.and with a shutting lens I holdyou in my eyes for one moment intime, before you run before thesefaces shift, before the crowd movesforth and eats you whole, a victim ofthe city buses' swim.one day I'll row upstream tomeet you in the middle of theintersect, that giant square where angrydrivers try to cast us to the sides.but stop, and say these words; the hornsblare on their own accord. you'llgo to school to hear them sing andwrite your song to match. and Iwill play, off time.you'll go to school and sing butI will stay the same, with booksand notes and my off-beatingdrum. you'll go to school and sing. andswear to stay in love.
Under the FogI told you all I found tosay is what I won't. So whydo I still analyze each wordI hear? I pick apart the songsyou wrote inside my head, insistthey're not for me.Am I as nice of a girl as youthought I was? These words Ispill into the early morning Junewon't spell who I'm to be. Iwish you gave me something tangibleon which to hold -- the last time I movedfar too slow, this summer I'llfind clarity.These walls are made ofpost-it notes. My unsaids leaveme wishing for familiar. The notes Ising, I find they're still for you.Under the fog, you swear I'mSomeone New, but I'm still notsure who that person is.