Cultivated from a barren existence,
you turn to me
and I meet your gaze with persistence.
Your charade is one
I continue to see daily:
'you can't understand,
so just go on and hate me.'
But I make you walk down that line,
you're confused.
You said you're broken inside
and your fingers are bruised,
that it's not okay to cry
and any tissues used
to wipe away the tears and sweat
will burn to my touch.
A sinful manifestation
of insignificance and such.
On stage, you kneel with me
and we move with the lights.
We act out all the bad mondays
and crazy friday nights.
We speak in couplets and rhyme
to the tick of a clock.
Discuss the curves of my hips
and the bend of your cock.
Our bed sheets collide
with the skin and the rain
that fell on our faces
and tame us, pulled the reins
that ripped open our cheeks.
My mouth now understands the pain that you seek.
Yet your lethargy is a complex
I cannot comprehend;
how your eyes never move,
yet your lips can still bend.
How you call me a loser when I call you a creep,
only talk of what's wrong
and all day you sleep.
I don't know if you knew,
but I'll tell you today:
we go to sleep to dream,
not to take dreams away.
Author notes
Written March 20th, 2006
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