The cliff
No matter how I looked at it, the height stayed.
A thousand hours spend thinking about how and why and is this really necessary.
A millions words, not meant to harm, not meant to push away.
Thrown before me, in the hopes that they would dissapear.
But they floated. They waited. Watched me as I pondered how badly I needed to jump.
There is no other side. No invisible bridge that will take me across the gulf.
Only… I still hoped you see?
All my Words, waiting for me. Like smiling demons. Like crying angels.
And as I jumped I put my hands up in the air.
They couldn’t figure out if I was reaching out or giving up.
So they watched me fall.
And I watched them watch.
One day I’m sure I’ll reach the bottom.
I don’t know when, I haven’t looked down yet.
The bill
I figure I’m entitled to something. Anything. Just entitled.
Whatever I get usually has a price tag on it, and sometimes includes some of my blood as currency.
If it comes free, it usually is a payback from past actions. That I’d rather not be reminded of.
As it is, my life at check out will fit in a lunch paperbag.
Straight ahead
I jumped off one of the last cliffs on my present path. I’m terrified. Relieved. Sad. Afraid. Proud. At last.
Suivre les plis
Je me disais qu’alentours il faisait chaud. Que c’était de moi que venait tout ce froid.
Je me disais que dehors l’air étais frais. Que c’était de mes poumons que sortait la mort.
La mort par batch. Remplie de c’est plate, ça fait mal, j’en peux plus, où j’ai mis ma tête, combien de temps ça va durer, pourquoi, pourquoi, pourquoi.
Des respires entravés. Des toux creuses. Sèches.
Je répète, je reviens, je disparais, je m’efface, je retourne là où je ne devrais pas être. Éviter les pancartes. Éviter les autoroutes surtout, c’est pollué de mort.
Je transporte ma température. Un trailer qui achève. Les pneus aux fesses.
Petites routes de campagne, voyager léger. Un point com ma destination.
The hours
Ohhh things are piling up again. Avoid looking at the clock, that helps. No matter how much I know, understand, I manage to fuck up good once in a while. I wonder if it isn’t intentionally. Some way to cling to… what? It’s just stupid and doesn’t make any kind of sense. Being good should be simple, according to every single tv show I watch. I should be ashamed, no? Shame. Ugly, ugly word. Belly cramps word.
There is no comfort. No respite. No reason. I live my life like I’m trying to get out of freezing water. Numb yet hurting. Out of breath.
The moment. It is now. I remind myself everyday. Now is the time to live.
I can’t escape. Not because there is no way out.
Because I belong here.
Bienvenue! Welcome!
That’s as official as it’s gonna get. You know the place.
