A Room of My Own
All I want is a room of my own, full of type-writers and rivers of corrective fluid to white-out an entire age of typos and misspelled words, full of chilly nights of cuddled up bodies and sweaters insulating themselves against an onset of a cultural wave of emotional frigidity, full of mere minutes of time stretched beyond their limits and filled with silences made golden by the circumpherence of two eyes grasping deeping into the earth and into each other to brace themselves against the sweep of time's broom.
I am tired of chasing after weddings rings and impossible dreams of midnight kisses in the Garden of Eden, tired of situational comedies adapted from the pages of infinite nights of listless flirtation rendered into bleached, white skulls sinking into the ground at the mention of one or both of the two most profane words to all single men, boyfriend or the more sinster sealed in Ten Commandments concerete husband.
I'm tired of staring deep into the horizon of long-dead constellations and thinking that somwhere out there over tree-tops and river valleys lies a newly leased house housing a girl being eaten inside-out by her past that would love me if only she knew the right words to dispel layers of hurt and betrayl, and I'm tired of writing countless poems without finding those words myself.
Most of all, I'm already tired of saying that I'm tired of things, and I'm tired of feeling like negativity has won a war within the scattered neurons of my brain, but however cheerful and jolly an elf one may play in the social game of reality there are always moments when sadness and streaks of self-pity win.
All I want is a room of my own, full of type-writers and rivers of corrective fluid to white-out an entire age of typos and misspelled words, full of chilly nights of cuddled up bodies and sweaters insulating themselves against an onset of a cultural wave of emotional frigidity, full of mere minutes of time stretched beyond their limits and filled with silences made golden by the circumpherence of two eyes grasping deeping into the earth and into each other to brace themselves against the sweep of time's broom.
I am tired of chasing after weddings rings and impossible dreams of midnight kisses in the Garden of Eden, tired of situational comedies adapted from the pages of infinite nights of listless flirtation rendered into bleached, white skulls sinking into the ground at the mention of one or both of the two most profane words to all single men, boyfriend or the more sinster sealed in Ten Commandments concerete husband.
I'm tired of staring deep into the horizon of long-dead constellations and thinking that somwhere out there over tree-tops and river valleys lies a newly leased house housing a girl being eaten inside-out by her past that would love me if only she knew the right words to dispel layers of hurt and betrayl, and I'm tired of writing countless poems without finding those words myself.
Most of all, I'm already tired of saying that I'm tired of things, and I'm tired of feeling like negativity has won a war within the scattered neurons of my brain, but however cheerful and jolly an elf one may play in the social game of reality there are always moments when sadness and streaks of self-pity win.
i love the long-dead constellations section