"...to read words is to take them as your own, therefore these belong to you."
The Irrelevance of Yesterday
What was it that forged the love that has now fallen? Autumn came to quickly for me to see clearly through the haze of colors that are sadly my past. I had something when I stood illuminated by blue, but lips have parted too soon. If you know what I'm thinking, how can you hurt me? If you know what I'm thinking, how can you stand me? Why do I pray for death when I'm alone in my mind with you? Trivial questions are left unanswered. When my thoughts find you as they always do, every breath feels like the last. Oh how I wish it were.
March 31st
Exempt from greed are those of innocence born, but not for long. From you I received a letter at long last, but was my sickness mentioned? Was a date proclaimed? Merely encouragement and descriptions for methods of your payment. Profit frequents the mind perhaps now with faithful convenience, but pray it remains at bay as I lie beneath you upon the table. With thoughts elsewhere the knife may so easily slip. As you bring the mask down upon my face once again, look into my eyes and tell me, was you who left the scar? When the check has cashed, pause for a moment and look at where you life has lead. Are you content?
Casting Aside The Days
I could spend the rest of my life submerged in apology. It is not words spoken to me that serve to portray my flaws, but the tone in which they're taken. My tongue's impatience with contemplation define my reply. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. If only words would remain as they are and not take form of pitch or sound I swear things could be different. If time was weak enough to have friends I would offer myself unto it. It would give me a chance to memorize the patterns that have left me alone in the hollow of these walls. It would tell me ahead of itself whether or not to leave well enough alone. That is why I am glad these are only thoughts. Predictability shall never be a virtue, at least not for me.
The Things We Do Alone Behind Closed Doors
The ink upon the paper withstands a loneliness forged upon a block of misguided perceptions. I've reminded my pen to bear in mind the fragility of truth. I wish to have no part in the betrayal of countless eyes, who in turn will sacrifice true knowledge before the glittering throne of curiousity. My own have done the same. To read words is to take them as your own, therefore there belong to you. Besides generalization there stands an individual for whom I involuntarily craft my thoughts. But I know without doubt she will cast them aside with an indifferent hand while using the other to deliver her pain, again, as before. Why is there a smile upon your face?
Untitled
Confusion be
longs to me to replace what wasn't there
A ceaseless moan
and I wonder where-
you are-somewhere in
the distance a redial
computes and tenis
matches are being
wOne shouts like thunder
through my thoughts
Cars are yawning spirits
and airplanes scrape across the
night sky
Thing are too real, am I?
Where is there
room for my
blanks?
All grammar and spelling is as it was written by Sarah Bedtelyon.
Clouds Unconjured
I forget where to begin. Solace. Can it be wrong to hold back tears? Does distraction misplace the pictures I've painted... and kept? With that years foregone an yet seen it sometimes seems like nothing. In fatigue I've thrown wishes upon thoughts of sleep. To be you. I cannot keep these thoughts if hope for realization is to be retained. Tonight I'll be alone because words mean nothing. Tonight I'll cry because your love still saves me.
Every So Often
There is a certain smile that causes the young to feel old, but it is more than a gesture. An accumulation of fractured memories is what we call age. Every so often we shield our eyes and look towards the sun to see them circling in the skies behind us, feeding off ehat remains of our dreams. You stop walking and turn to see your footprints become words and asking "Why has it taken you so long to get nowhere?" You continue to dig through, through the sands that never allow you to go deep enough to grasp your youth. Could we ever learn how not to look over these shoulders? You start to run, oblivious to the tears streaming down your face, forcing yourself not to collapse. But that peace you feel is the knowledge that when our eyes have closed for the last time, what we've waited for all these years will finally set us free.