and let all that inky space
pour into our empty places
so that we can unchain ourselves
from the burden of breathing.
I want to light a fire in that void
and let that raging combustion
shoot out among the stars
and nebulas and distants earths
that are just out of our reach.
I want to take all the clouds
and bottle them in an old tin can
so your days will always be clear
and when you want to be shaken
with storms or rain or snow
you can just find a rusty butter knife
and pry to your hearts content.
I want to grow a new world
from seeds of long forgotten thought
found in ancient ruins of the middle class family
that always wanted to take root
but didn't know why or how
to take root in a place
that breaks the bones of happy children
and sets them so they never grow back proper
so they can't ever move without thinking
about a world that fucked them over.
I want to push my body
until the stresses of four thousand days
leaves me older and jaded
and so bitter that no amount of milk
can fix the dark brown color
of the coffee of my life
and I can look back at old friends
filled with pure radiant happiness
that I have arrived at adulthood
and they will never know the joy
of all consuming debt
of luckless loveless marriage
of a life devoted to money
of kids who fail at all expectation
of surprises that ruin every almost good time
of enough alcohol to drown a ship
of wondering how bad death could be
of standing on the bridge
of falling down again and again until it loses all meaning.
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