he was baby faced,
with sky colored eyes, brown curls,
and a black guitar
that hummed like it was the realest thing you could ever forget about,
that crawled into my head
and sat in the library
of all my thoughts.
like books they're overdue,
and i've been meaning to return them
but i can't find the place i'm supposed to return them to.
i stopped him on the gravel road
and i asked him
if he knew such a place.
he pointed to his guitar
and told me that every cord
grabbed a line from his heart
and pushed it outside his body for the world to hear.
he said most people wouldn't understand his language,
but it made them cry
and he supposed that amounted to something.
he told me that maybe
he had cared too much
about trying to get others to understand his heart,
and he realized that
that simple,
unfortunate characteristic
had caused him a tremendous amount of pain.
he told me there was no place that would ease the burden of my mind;
by putting his thoughts into music he just made them harder for him to find.
no one is ever going to love you enough to become you,
and no library is ever going to accept something so overdue.
you won't ever have somewhere to return your thoughts,
but at least you can find a place to return them to.
YOU ARE READING
horribly beautiful ✔️
Poesíapeople write about things that do not happen. they will romanticize this world in hopes of filling themselves up. they write like their words are food. but i have always written to empty myself completely. i will romanticize feeling nothing. jun...
