There is, I know, there has to be
someone else sitting
feeling that feeling
that pit inside that
will never leave
you must believe
we tried to
make the pain
subside but our
side aches endlessly
stretching, reaching,
growing, never slowing
larger, larger.
"This plane will stay
in the air and I
will not plummet
to my death."
repeat it, awkward
like a new mantra
with too many fears
to be believable
too many letters
to be clever.
you know better
than that.
some of those words
fall, too heavy
straight from mouth
to heart.
plummet
plummet
going down, back to the pit
the side with fear
ball of nerves shocked
stretched to the heart
with tape, nail glue,
held together with
battery acid and love
for adventure.
It's hard to get lost
when you're looking for yourself. Why'd you fuck
with the plan?
It's just another thing to live without
plans and daylight
and home
somethings just feel like cranberry juice
with too much ice
and a cup that stays too close. I meant too cold.
It won't last.
And that's a metaphor
and so is this.
and so am I.
If being a metaphor
has become synonymous
for being your fool.
