Every love poem I've ever written
I have created by accident,
or when stumbling over the mistakes
that pile up to become mountains,
desperately trying to climb them
before they could block my sight.
Every song and every scream,
and all the magic of the dreams
that long to fuse with the dark.
Every smile and every sigh,
every truth and every lie,
were born from simply pretending.
Pretending to be a dozen different people,
wearing dozens of perfectly sculpted faces.
As if a pitiful longing for something more
could ever be enough to realize any dreams.
As if simply expanding my blackened lungs
could ever prove that I'm still breathing;
As if a heart pounding in my rib cage
would mean that my heart is still beating.
Playing despair's greatest symphonies,
arranged in the obsessive attachments
to anyone, no-one, and myself;
dancing on the waters of seeking harmony,
living in the beautifully oppressive melodies.
How brilliant then, is the bitterly ironic
tragedy of me slowly becoming deaf.
And that is why every love poem I've ever written
could only be made through a myriad accidents;
reliably showing up whenever I created
far too many worlds with only me inside,
desperately holding on to
any fading feelings of being alive
