Water pours like the choices we make every day,
dripping into place down faces that’re too happy, or too sad
to really know what’s going on.
We’re committed to the things we say,
only to be committed by the way we say it.
my voice is a liquid that drips with opinions
that spark like gasoline.
It forms like the puddles who’s ripples reflect the faces
of anyone standing over them,
but sometimes I speak like a dog marking it’s territory,
or I’m just hinting at the beginning
of a never-ending story.
In these lives we all want a little glory,
we all want to save someone else’s life,
but for me
I cant even see to save myself
and when I speak
and get carried away with the details to the point
to where the point gets lost
like money to the cost
of the things that I don’t even need.
As if all I ever wanted was to bleed,
because I’ve been screaming whispers from across this room
and you still cant hear me
and I’m drowning in my own description
still wondering how I forgot to swim,
I thought it was like riding a bike.
But in minding my own business I’ve taken this too far
and it feels like I’m only making sense now
when I’m talking to myself.
I am that tree that falls in the forest,
and the rest of this get’s left open to interpretation,
like I were making estimations for the level of perpetration
it might take to change the tone
of my t-shirt
that’s clinging to my body language
as if it were dying to say something.
We are no different that the liquid we sweat,
we take the path of least resistance across our own bodies
where pointing out where we’ve all gone wrong
for some reason
lands us right between pointing the finger
and giving the finger
and only hatred seems to linger
when love is what keeps us away.
But this voice speaks life
that pours like a liquid
that drips with opinions that spark like gasoline,
but I want to speak the way rivers become waterfalls
and are reborn into oceans,
I want the kind of words I speak
to pour like syrup and cover every topic that I know,
but maybe that’s why I sugarcoat things.
So rather than finding the right words
I think I might find something to say,
because there are times
when I feel so old
it’s like every time I blink
days go by
and these eyes have already started giving me away,
squinting just to see a little better
where it’s like this life just wants to hurt you
and remind us that we’re organic
and after all the things that could naturally go wrong with our bodies,
look at us.
We come up with so many more ideas.
So this has got me thinking
that if I’m lucky enough
I might live long enough
to one day carry my lunch back home with me in a catheter bag,
because why are we born to live
if the way we live dictates the way we die
and now I’m starting to shy away from these days,
like if I could place my life into a snow globe bubble
then I might stretch this thing out
for so far and so thin
that you’d barely even notice it,
but this voice is this life
and I breathe the words I speak
and I want to let it drip with opinions
that spark like gasoline.