enTROPY. (1oo% ab.SOLUTION) :: w.IRE.s

there are things in life
----->problems, wires
that get tangled in
our own desires<-----
and in these fences
where we are caught
we strangle ourselves
in the troubles we wrought
we don’t look
for the things we’ve fought
but these are the kinds
of wires I got.

.


.

.
.





I’ve had this epiphany;;
an epiphany of
r e v o l u t i o n a r y
proportions
& insurmountable scars.


it was the kind
that wasn’t kind.
the measurable,
breakable,
tangible
kind.

the kind that makes you cry,
that makes you laugh,
that makes you sigh.

the kind that makes you
s t a r v e
for a
happy
ending.

the kind that whispers
in your ear;;
like the murmurs of lovers,
except not as
[sweet].

the kind that makes you
feel like you’re
being controlled

the kind that
i s n ‘ t

kind.



it’s the kind
that pulls me down on my
hands
& knees

hands
& knees

with insurmountable scars
decorating white-washed skin

stacking bottles of wine
all lined up
against the wall like children

the kind
that don’t listen,
with teasing smiles & fading grins,
a song of
m i r t h
erupting, prejudiced,
from their open mouths,

as I crawl on my
hands
& knees

(my bruised,
battered,
broken knees).



I want the kind
the forgiving kind
the forever-lasting,
merciful
kind

the kind
that erases
what I have left undone
when not a soul
hears my
w h i s p e r s

that leave me crying
for more.

I want to know more.

I want to know
I want to know
I want to know
I want to know
I want to know
I want to know
I want to know more than this.



it’s the
self-sufficient,
inefficient,
overestimated kind

and no one knows
just how many scars I have

and no one knows
just how much I
----->l o v e<-----
you,

as I crawl on my
hands
& knees
(my battered,
bruised,
& broken knees)
on the grating hardwood floor
that still smells slightly of
life

andifyoulistenclose
youcanhearthefloorboardsymphony
ofcreaksandmoansandwhispers
thosedamnwhispers.



stupid hands,
stupid knees.
stupid flow of e n t r o p y,
& the
dreadful,
malleable,
insurmountable scars.




.
.

.


.

these are the kinds
of thoughts I think
the kinds of h o p e s
we always drink
these scars and bruises,
----->battered dreams
that we hold on to
by breaking seams<-----
this is true,
believe it or not



these are the kinds
of wires I got.