Perfect Pair: Arm Floaties and Bricks

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A love poem.

This is a spoken word poem, meant to be performed. However, I feel reading can do some good too.

Submitted: March 10, 2014

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 10, 2014

A A A

A A A


I float effortlessly in a pool stenched with chlorine and a slight hint of urine. I have embarrassing cartoon prints, and I am lighter than air. But no matter how necessary I am, I never seem to fit just right, as I’m constantly readjusted or taken off because some sad child has “sensitive” skin.

 

And . . . you sit there. I mean, you’re a brick! Unmoving, stationary, with some dull reddish color and sometimes just downright boring. . . But even so, just as—no, more necessary than I, for you bear the burden and the weight of the world. Where I save lives, you create it, laying the foundation like a fertile garden where all may live.

 

Sometimes, I have the pleasure of feeling the warm ocean breeze or being taken away by some holy current directing me to the endless sea of possibilities . . . But sometimes, I forget that I’m still a fucking arm floaty. Although I have all these dreams, all these pleasures, it takes but a whimpy needle to end it all. And a needle against you stands no chance.

 

No . . .

 

When faced with adversity, you do not falter. You may crack and sometimes chip, but you will stand strong. And I will tear and rip from the inside releasing my life-force into the air only to become . . . entropy.

 

I float aimlessly in the ocean current and if given the chance I’d hover right into the sky. A sky with no atmosphere, no limits. But you know better than I do that if the mesosphere doesn’t stop me, eventually I’d reach the hot, scorching sun.

 

But yea, sometimes I can also be a sick son of a bitch. I’m fickle and mischievous; irritating some child’s skin, and even more annoying: mysteriously deflating mid swim. And still, I gain even more pleasure when it takes them so long to find the almost microscopic hole “that could’ve killed him” . . . Yea, I’m pretty sick.

 

And you’re nothing of the sort. You won’t spontaneously crumble or deviously imagine little Billy’s slow and painful aquatic death . . . You will stay loyal and friendly but cold and hard when you need to be.

 

Damn. Every floaty needs a brick. To keep us from meeting needles, to stop us from harming children, to put up with our intolerably annoying cartoon prints.

 

Us floaties would fly up into the skies, but without you bricks, we’d never come back down.

 

And you bricks, all cool and collected, if it weren’t for us floaties, you would never meet the sky.


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