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Speaking In Tongues
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Old I waste my life
trying to speak these tongues
to an audience
that probably doesn't care.
but I'll keep rambling
just to catch your stare
if for a second.
cause after all, these tears I cry just beckon
for an open eye
to follow them on their way down,
and watch them hit the ground
and splash around in shards
that wet this stage with what we really are...
and so I swing my pendulum of fears
across your eyes
to hypnotize you,
and hopefully make you sigh
at the sight of your body being buried
right next to my words
that bore such a weight,
they sank right into the mud.
and now they only come up in the rain.
so I try to explain to my tears
that they need to come clean
with my voice and your ears
if I am to properly
bask in the glory of sorrow and truth.
so no more stories...
I promise you...
don't worry...
I'll finally mirror the honest you.
so I'll try to stop looking at rhyme schemes
and live my life one verse at a time.
and I swear to you...
may I be stricken with the curse of the mime
if my words even dare to lose themselves
in the first set of lies
they are offered...
man, this is awful -
each word just chains to the next
in such a tightly knit pattern,
you'd think you were eating a waffle.
so take my tiny thought squares
and pour over them
the silent syrup I keep over there
by the couch...
and just stare
at my muted mouth
for half a minute-
let it pass
and then bask
in the most meaningful thing I've said all night...
but I'll ramble
about the helplessness that could
strike at any time from any angle -
like I may at once
run out of answers and show it.
or forget that I'm a poet.
or I might have cancer and don't know it.
I could die tomorrow
for not being checked up today
and soon become
that which I've always been -
the ghost of spoken word.
sending dying melodies into the wind.
and can... can you hear them?
they are flying sins
just begging to be heard
by angels when they play their violins:
that music that just spins the truth
I'll never know...
