To us dreamers

We’re stuck in the moments
between today and yesterday,
like moths we are
drawn to the ultraviolet lights
that will burn our wings
stopping us from flying away;
letting us be free,
we’re dying in a false dream
filled with hope.

We sit in our surreal sadness
with diamonds for tears
falling so often
they’ve become worthless.
Is this happiness?
Children imitating our idols
lost at sea
praying they’ll come home soon
and write us lullabies.

What are we even for anymore?
To cry and muse on behalf of
The perfect past.
I promise you darling
we’re all very lovely
writing soliloquies to die for,
of our disastrously dangerous desires
that want to scar us
marking our unclean bodies forevermore.

We’re the scared dreamers,
little kids who grew up jaggedly
like flowers raised by an eclipse
that lasted a thousand years.
We can write words that make men cry
but our lives will fall apart,
the romantic symphonies
hiding our broken hearts
will burn us dead.

Comment Je Suis Mort

I shall carve out the stars
from the twinkling sky
that my dreams are trapped in.
I’ll make my eyes sparkle
like those unbreakable diamonds

then I will capture the moon
with all its profound
loneliness, cut
a hard-hearted shape
and place it into
a beating chest

and all the planets in the
heavens above
shall merge into one.
Through
the tempestuous rage
that will occupy
my mad mad mind.

In my final act
in this magical dream,
I will usurp all
the seas that hide among
the stormy shore
and take all the desire
and run it through my veins
until
my heart flutters

dead.