I've written down every word I've ever wanted to say to you, hoping
I can inflict this malediction on something else, but still I feel this way. Still unfulfilled. I'm
and you're alone,
but we could never be alone together because -
and I've never told you this before - I lie to you
every single day. I'm the best friend that
lies, you're the best friend on my eyes ( you can tell I'm lying
because my lips are moving), and with these
eyes I recognise
they’re searching for something, not lost, but make believe.
If something dies and is soon forgotten
does it still exist?
If one remembers and still persists
should it be dismissed?
Or am I right? I’m longing for something that isn't mine. Someone else’s
I've written down every word I've ever wanted to say to you, see I don’t
photograph well. They say
a picture is worth a thousand words, mine whispers nervous hellos through
shuffled steps and misleading eyes. At least they say
that words just aren't enough, that words don't mean a thing, but
then what have I got, if all I’ve got is poetry?
And every word I've ever wanted to say to you, clipped to a picture of
that someone else’s angel. That picture worth not
a thousand words, but my own library of
books I’ve read a hundred times before,
books I’ll read a million times more.
I've written down every word I've ever wanted to say to you -
except these last few,
the simplest and most clichof them all, but still I
hope, just hope
that maybe they'll release me from this spell you have on me, that
I can listen to my own advice and just give up.
I’ve written almost every word I’ve ever wanted to say to you, and
here's my last throw of the dice,
I love you.
And that’s all that’s left to say.
I still feel the same.
Maybe it just takes a minute to kick in.
See, I don’t know a lot about these things.
© Copyright 2016 November. All rights reserved.