"Five years ago feels like yesterday,"I said with a bittersweet smile enshrouding my eyes, covering my face with glistening sparkles of light. I would like very much to take every pair of reflective sunglasses from the clearance rack at my neighborhood wal-mart because I sure as hell can't seem to keep anybody out but I guess that's poetry. I guess that's poetry that runs through my veins, my life blood, you keep my heart beating
thump thump
thump thump
I guess that's poetry when your brain rambles so fast you mistake pillow for marshmallow so I'll take some creative license. I guess it's poetry the scrawled lines of misshapen pleas written in bold, black paint
Why will it never dry?
I guess that five years ago was poetry when we talked on the phone for hours, well actually it was sobbing, but when words fail to speak raw emotion does, I know better than anybody:
It's the moon that does the dancing, and
tears? Well they are just waterfalls from inside of our souls.
Five years ago you had a beautiful soul and now all I see when I search your name are birthdays and anniversaries and births but never that one thing that meant the most to me five years ago, my five year old poem of death.
Five years ago is the reason black paint is always in short supply in my house. I still remember when mom walked into my room, saw me with a paintbrush and said, You've killed the walls.
Five years ago felt more like a bird so I said, The walls killed me.
Five years ago killed me not you. Not you. I saw the walls close in, so I busted down the flimsy stone and strong glass with words and thoughts and a stroke of black paint did it. It did it like you held her in your lap and taught her how to count. Patiently, quietly, but with a determination of a few thousand birds,
flying south for the winter.
Five years ago, I come back home.
