"If I had the time sake to yell out the words I never got to, I would. Like breathing air and dying once after that. The alcohol that couldn't be held the sleeping pills that got us closer, the parties, the lights, and the dance floor. If we sat in corners and said that we didn't dance that would be lie. Sorrow is a legend. Greatness. The one story told. Breathing air isn't enough it doesn't give me enough time to die and holding my breath would be a joke because then sadly I'm not breathing air. Air that the lights needed to lit. Air that the party needed to keep going and air I solemnly took for granted like the free alcohol that was hidden behind the school's dumpster.
Back when I was breathing air I use to write eulogies to my depression of the love not even my lover could express. I use to sit in class and be good, too good to be recognized. The times, I was taken advantage of. I was no nerd but I have my wits. The wittiness you couldn't forget or forgive. And if I swallowed the bullet a friend use to kill, then no one would need to know I was breathing gun fires of mesmerizing times.
The smoke that filled the air, the grass that kept it going, the feeling of the never ending Cinderella stories, the twist. The bitterness, the sweetness of nothing I cherish, more than myself. Some say that may be selfish but who is paying attention to a rebel who sings gospels in the morning. If it wasn't for the lectures and the churches and the "amen" of those lying sinners. I wouldn't call myself religion. But I guess we all have to sin everyday so we always have enough time to bathe ourselves in holy water. As if the party would end the satanic music grew louder and so did the movement of the notorious alcoholics. Touching the gravitational ends of we would call "life?"
When I was breathing air, everything was mostly confusing and if it ever made sense then I would still be left confused and if the parallel lines ever met. Now I'd be really confused. But no one would need to know. Exactly like the incense sticks burning right on their skins. The never ending parties, for all the dirty freaks that couldn't stand a chance with the real world. I don't write my story so that you can laugh but I write it because I'm breathing air. Air so poisonous it's hard to say "I love breathing," and If I did I would take it back in a heartbeat so let the music play, let the ladies dance, and let the addicts die. Ladies and gentlemen, this is the night we are breathing air."
YOU ARE READING
Kissed By The Unknown
Roman d'amourA series of poems I wrote, from bullying, to mostly romance, to friendship, and to mysteries. It might be bad so bare with me. Mostly based on personal experiences.
