When I try to dive deeply into the pool of our love,
See it's only filled with 12 inches of water, but from up here it somehow looks like more.
I keep trying to pretend this ones not shallow,
that its not just butterflies and blue skies but the problem with make believe is that "belief" part,
that leaping even after I look part.
I'm impulsive and deceptive but even I cant build a landing ledge out of wanting.
Free falls aren't my favorite.
Neither are bleeding heads.
So why is it I can't write about the good things?
Why do the lines for you lie limp in the bed?
Is it because the moment is great and I don't need the escape
of ink scratched out on a narrow little page?
no.
Maybe it's part of the curse that started with her,
the one who showed me my rhymes now controls them from space,
a greedy goddess only allowing praise for her good works or anguish at their absence.
Maybe its she who wont let me express to distractions?
no.
Not that easy or mythical.
Even as i write this I'm growing bored.
Anguish and grief fuel my pen, when try and find cleaner fuel I fail.
I feel blood trickle down between my eyes,
touch the red dripping as a sign
of a foolish hope,
it's to no avail.
all that's left is to take a deep breath,
then sigh.
(I can't even find a good last line.)
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