I played violin all growing up.
My mother said as soon as I could breath My fingers longed for the strings I could never sing, I wasn’t never good at that. But my fingers longed for the Sweet song that they could Hold, that they could feel when I played. I say I wasn’t never good at singing But the truth is, I wasn’t ever special At violin neither I only ever played second chair All growing up that’s what I got But I was the most reliable second Chair you ever did see I never missed a practice I was always five minutes early If you are on time, My father used to say, You are five minutes late But maybe that was it. Maybe I was just Too early It was a Tuesday, I remember it as a Sunday, But that’s just because it’s my Favorite day of the week They finally asked me To move up to first chair I told them I wanted to But I told them I was moving I said I’d practice everyday I said I’d be even better when I got to come back “We’ll see” That’s all they ever did tell me That’s as close as I got I spent the year practicing I thought of nothing but playing Nothing but sitting in that first chair How proud my parents could finally be I could sit with my chin up Knowing I sat in the first chair But on the drive cross country My violin broke Her strings had been snapped And her neck split Someone had gone and punched A hole in her body My family never came from money My violin was a gift One part birthday And two parts Christmas I knew I wasn’t getting one soon My fingers would grow slow and clumsy Before I could pick up another I realized the first chair would always be Just out of reach I’m a second chair violinist I wasn’t always no good I used to have a chance But I ain’t got none now I’m a second chair violinist And that’s where I’ll stay
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I shouldn't be allowed to go downtown.
See, I do this thing, where I fall in love real fast. I could swear to you I met my wife downtown today. Fourteen different times. I didn't keep bumping into the same girl, either. I met fourteen different girls who I would have gladly bent a knee to. When I use the word "met" I mean it in its loosest meaning. I mean it as: We made eye contact. The word "we" is also a loose interpretation which would be more aptly described as: I saw. Down the sleeve of my left arm,
there is a field of horses. They sit on the screen of a discarded out computer. They are a strong and a beautiful animal. Despite what some might say. In my chest is a memory Talking through the long night Until the morning sun and roommates came stumbling in. You've always held the keys to walk in and out of those memories. What could have been is a strong drug. "it might be better for you to come out from under your might-have-beens, into the winds of the world. And while I tell you, I am myself sifting my memories, the way men pan the dirt under a barroom floor for the bits of gold dust that fall between the cracks. It's small mining -- small mining. You're too young a man to be panning memories..." Chair,
Will you hold me? Can you bear The weight of my heart? Your legs seem frail Your frame weak. But I am tried And I need rest. Chair, Can you hold me? I would like some rest. Love seat, Is there room for us? I don't want to squeeze But I fear uncomfort is inevitable Love seat, Will you hold us? While we hold each other. Bed, Will you still be comfy? Is there room for two Between your sheets? I don't know if I snore. Do I snore bed? Will it bother her? Will it bother you? Grave, Why must you hold her? Why is there only room for one. For surely when she died, I died with her. I've become so comforted In not being alone. And now I stand alone Over a box that holds my heart. Chair, Can you hold the weight of my pain? Can you carry me? Bed, Do you mind my tears? Do I keep you up at night? I'm sorry if I do. Grave, When will you hold me? You are to me a pomegranate
You in one hand a knife in my other I want so badly to know you But I am terrified of the mess that lays beneath your skin I've eaten you before I've eaten many of you But now most of what remains are dirtied shirts and stained clothes How do I know you will last? How do I know you will last? I hold the knife Not knowing what to do So I stab, deep into the flesh but not yours mine Because how can I know what to look for how can i know what i need when I haven't peeled back my skin and looked within I haven't cracked open my chest to see my heart beating how do i know what it beats for does yours beat as mine? Does it go fast then slow then not at all at others does it hurt? does it scare you at times? my heart does. so before i get to know you i want to cut into myself because then our stains can dirty my shirt together, and they will be one painting a beautiful picture on my chest My heart does not beat as a proper heart does. It hurts a lot. For a long time doctors didn't know what was the matter with me. They still don't. I wrote this poem when I thought I had a hole in my heart, I thought death was patiently waiting for me. I was scared.
There are millions of fish Swimming through my veins They carry life The hold the sun They take care of me In my chest is a drunken conductor He once was very good at his job Telling the fish where and when to go But as time and weather have aged him He fails at times, and he forgets things, his candace, his directions, his timing. I am fearful the liver of my heart will give out, he will fall to ground of his enclosure and lay there, cold and silent. And when the fish No longer have voice or direction to guide them, they too will stop. I have this friend who says that she finally has grown into her nose.
I think that's pretty cool. Well I also think she's a little crazy. I never thought she hadn't grown into it. But I think it's cool because it gives hope. Hope to the rest of us. Because personally speaking, I don't think I've grown into my nose. And I think I had this fear that I wouldn't ever grow into it. But she gives me hope. But I actually think she gives me hope for a bigger reason. All this time she was thinking she hadn't grown into her nose. All the while I thought her nose fit her wonderfully. Now either I have some perception problems, or individuals are a little to hard when judging themselves. Personally I think it's the latter. This friend of mine is one of my dearest friends in the world. I count myself blessed to know her. And to that friend I want to say. You have a lovely nose. I was once a king
I made a palace out of sheets And friends out of pillows I was forced to tear down those walls So I erected new ones I built a moat around my heart I locked myself in I hid the keys No one was around For miles No one knocked For years I grew hungry And tired of waiting So I found the keys And went out from there When I looked back at all I had built I saw my castle was really a shack The walls were broken And there were holes in the roof I decided never to return I left that place searching What I found was pain What I got was hurt But I met people They weren't as soft as pillows But they were real And they loved The sky is so much more beautiful When you don't have to look At it through cracks in the ceiling I lost the keys to my heart long ago But I don't mind much I left it unlocked And open "Something is terribly wrong. I need to get out of here."
You are probably wondering where I am in this story. Well actually right about now you are probably wondering how I expected you to realize this is a story and not just a quote, and even more so this is a story about me. Well, reader, I have high expectations for you, so try and keep up will you? (That sounded mean once I typed it out, but I'm not a huge fan of backspace... I apologize.) ((Remember the ( )'s are whispers, they are my inner thoughts)) Back to the story at hand. "Where am I? Why is it all so dark, and why am I so light headed, and dizzy. I need to get out." So I crawl out of my trunk. What? I want to catch fireflies again. I want to run through my backyard chasing the lights that come and go- always just out of grasp.
I miss going on walks. Talking with friends deep into the night. Sitting on benches and writing our futures. My windows are open, there is a cool breeze that sweeps through the room, it takes my mind with it. If I could fly. If I could make my way to the coast. To the ocean. To warm air and soft beaches... It has tasted like Spring the last few days. It doesn't smell like it, occasionally it will look like it, but it tastes of Spring. As I breath in deep, as the oxygen fills my lungs, Spring is there. I need a Spring. |
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