edwarddust

("There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." Ernest Hemingway)

I have these dreams, of those who are dead, or dead to me.
Things play out differently in my head...
I get to reach inside and pull out all the sharp parts, that tear up my insides when I'm alive.
Handing them over to their rightful owners.

I'm okay.
I'm okay, right?

I hold the pointing sliver spikey stars.
They glisten in the dreaming.
Each painful, beautiful, and now liberated from me.

I give them, in my dreams, to where they belong.

In the mouth of a man, who showed me how deep words can cut.

In the chest of a young boy, who broke my heart.

In the eyes of my mother, who always looked away.

The shining little shapes sinking into it's home.
In my dream, I find I am my own island.

I find my father.
And pull out the splinter.

I find my daughter.
I give her rubies.

I find myself...
In these houses that are RED and RED and RED...
but my room, she's BLUE.

A blue spark in a black place.

I hear a voice.
To call me back to the living.