I locked my keys in the car
I'm pleading for some change
The meter treats me like a stranger now
Flashing zeros
I'm juggling a drink too full
While tugging on a leash that you pull
And jogging my memory for
The way to your door
I have been broken open
By my most trusted friend
I was the wild card, you were the safe bet
I've been broken open
I'm up and down that way
It's easier to say that I'm doing okay
Than bother to explain
The water rising
Threw out your crystal ball and your weather vain
Picasso don't pre-meditate he just paint
Tonight it's so easy
To overflow
I have broken open
Was a perfect gentleman
Now I'm smashing champagne, tying cans
Feel like celebrating
I have been broken open
Dug to china with bare hands
When you asked me if I'd like to dance
I've been broken open
Flow over me, flow over, flow
Over flow
It feels so strange to feel good
And when I was the fire you were wood
So when I was petrified
You understood
I have been broken open
This was not my master plan
I was comfortable watching from the stands
I have been broken open
All my edges are exposed
I was once content alone
Now you brought the one that I call home
I've been broken open
Flow over me, flow over, flow
Monday, April 30, 2012
Inky Excuse
I felt like I was being watched.
I felt like I was being watched so I got off my bed and slowly walked around my room. No one there. So I stood still, twirling my pencil in my hand and and trying to stare the source of the feeling into existence.
With the feeling only slightly pushed away, I sat back on the bed, my pencil going back to the numbers and signs that just didn't register in my mind. That was when I heard it.
A tiny sound, a sad sound, something small and innocent. But something about it scared the numbers from my head and the pencil from my hand. I crossed the room to the source of the cry. It came from the desk, but nothing there could have made it. I decided it was all in my head and tried to call the numbers back. And as I turned, the voice came back.
"Just going to leave me here all month, are you?" it said.
"What?" Where was it coming from? The only thing in that direction was a slender black pen resting on a yellow-paged notebook. I slowly inched closer and let the tip of my finger touch the smooth shell of the pen.
"That's the first time you've touched me in a month," it said. Did it really say that? I didn't know that pens could talk. But something made me respond.
"I-I've been busy. I don't have time to-,"
"Don't have time for me? But you have time for those obnoxious pencils. I thought you knew better. Pencils hold you back. Pens are the only things that make you take risks, make you unafraid. We used to do a lot together, you know." It was right. I thought back on the times I used the pen to write a story or a poem or whatever it was in my mind that was screaming to get out. It was a release, and I missed it.
"I know," I sighed. "And you're right." I picked up the pen and the paper. Both felt warm in my hands, felt right. I curled up in the window, clicked the pen, and let it take over. And it felt perfect. The pen was like a bridge for everything that had been clogging my mind to escape by, to be captured on paper and to settle into it's warm fibers. But that moment wasn't just for me. It was for both of us. To really live, the pen needed to bleed.
I felt like I was being watched so I got off my bed and slowly walked around my room. No one there. So I stood still, twirling my pencil in my hand and and trying to stare the source of the feeling into existence.
With the feeling only slightly pushed away, I sat back on the bed, my pencil going back to the numbers and signs that just didn't register in my mind. That was when I heard it.
A tiny sound, a sad sound, something small and innocent. But something about it scared the numbers from my head and the pencil from my hand. I crossed the room to the source of the cry. It came from the desk, but nothing there could have made it. I decided it was all in my head and tried to call the numbers back. And as I turned, the voice came back.
"Just going to leave me here all month, are you?" it said.
"What?" Where was it coming from? The only thing in that direction was a slender black pen resting on a yellow-paged notebook. I slowly inched closer and let the tip of my finger touch the smooth shell of the pen.
"That's the first time you've touched me in a month," it said. Did it really say that? I didn't know that pens could talk. But something made me respond.
"I-I've been busy. I don't have time to-,"
"Don't have time for me? But you have time for those obnoxious pencils. I thought you knew better. Pencils hold you back. Pens are the only things that make you take risks, make you unafraid. We used to do a lot together, you know." It was right. I thought back on the times I used the pen to write a story or a poem or whatever it was in my mind that was screaming to get out. It was a release, and I missed it.
"I know," I sighed. "And you're right." I picked up the pen and the paper. Both felt warm in my hands, felt right. I curled up in the window, clicked the pen, and let it take over. And it felt perfect. The pen was like a bridge for everything that had been clogging my mind to escape by, to be captured on paper and to settle into it's warm fibers. But that moment wasn't just for me. It was for both of us. To really live, the pen needed to bleed.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
School, I'm Having Trouble Taking You Serious
As I sit trapped in my desk with no where to put my legs, all my wandering mind can even fathom focusing on is the feel of sun on my skin, the smell of a good book, and ink flowing from pens. I desperately want to get up, walk out, and run around with warmth on my back and grass licking at my feet and a book in my hands. Is that too much to ask?
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