The blind have no reason to walk

So why do we walk these distances holding hands assuming we know the path?

Amongst other things

I feel that tonight has been a night to remember. It may not be the best of nights, but it was most certainly not the worst. Because the way you make me feel is unlike any way I've ever felt before.

You make me feel like I am a cold river rushing down the mountain in spring whose heart was melted by the touch.

You make me realize that I HAVE done my best, because there is nothing better.

And isn't that what dad always wanted?

Was for us to do our best?

Go ahead, son. Make daddy proud.

Because the first time my daddy said he was proud, I was with you. I didn't think we'd be here now, no never did it cross my mind. But the wonders of art and the musical chimes have started the symphony I wish to last forever.

I want to just breathe when you stand next to me.

But for some reason I can't.

My breath has gone missing and is nowhere to be found, not in the highest of mountains or the lowest of rivers.

Oh please give it back. Give me my breath and lock it in place with a kiss because the thought of my lips on yours just makes the blood flow through me so fast I can almost feel it.

If only I could.

You looked beautiful tonight

And I sat there resisting what my heart wants so bad. Oh if only I could tell you or be taken seriously. Oh if only what I said to you carried the meaning I wished. If you knew, would you show me the day that never came? Would you show me how to live and how to smile again? What is it like in your world where it seems so happy from the outside? What is it like to walk on the pavement of another place but Paris? What's it like on the asphalt of my past before I stopped dreaming and started living? Pull me down from my dream cloud and show me what the real world is like.

To suffocate my screams. A poem by T.S. Wilde and The Black Box.

So a friend (who remains anonymous) and I wrote a poem together tonight, God know how it happened, but here it is:


T.S. Wilde: What am I supposed to do with all these brains and this emotional damage?

The Black Box: Sweep it under the rug with the rest of my broken puzzles.

T: But I forget that's where I keep my anger so no one sees it. There's no more room.

B: So then i will rip up these floorboards like you tore my paper heart and cram the feelings of self worthlessness there where everyone who steps on it will think those squeaks are just old wood, but in reality is the truth of my hell trying to get out.


T: As if my feelings of self loathing could ever be contained within the confines of the floors of this old house.--As if your personal hell isn't always leaking out into every day life when you're cradling your shredded heart like all the other lost souls of this generation.

B: No, these floorboards can't hold all that. Ill have to rip up the floorboards of every floor of every home in America, on every story in every building until my story has been written on these bricks in blood, until the northern lights read my lie and can shine in the south with my words never spoken, just written on the page in this pen that will run dry trying to tell of my hatred, and that is why they invented the iPad. But even when the 64 gigabytes of lust hate and scars, they will need to make a bigger iPad to contain these words, and a vocal box bigger than the ones confided to us.

T: But Even if they were to make a bigger vocal box, it could never hold all the screams contained in my body, in my soul. They can't think of anything deep or large enough to contain all those, nothing like the pits within our brains where we keep our demons. They can't invent the cages we keep our seven sins at bay in, but they keep trying, acting as if they've figured it out with their mass produced goods and their churches and their high-rise buildings. But no matter how many downloads, uploads, upgrades, or new products they create, none will ever be enough.

B: None will ever be enough to hide what this broken ribcage has to hide! This Purple Heart is swelling up in my chest and filling up the chasm of my throat, suffocating my screams and crushing my delicate lungs and pushing itself against the individual ribs like a water balloon against a tiny blade of grass getting ready to POP POP POP! Like the popcorn on that apricot tree because I'm definitely high off my ass! High off of all the shit you feed me, all the awful things you say to make me feel like my heart needs to explode. Needs to let the blood drain from my body carrying the words of my sorrow down my broken jaw like a blackened alphabet soup. Let it flow, let it flow, let.


It.



FLOW.



Theblackboxpoetry.blogspot.com

Accidentallythis.blogspot.com

These little wonders

And I wonder if I will ever find a girl who will tell me exactly how she feels about me, one who will laugh with me and let me call her beautiful, and take the compliment. Just give me a girl who will have a paint fight with red and blue and help me make purple. A girl who wants to kick my ass in call of duty just to spend some time with me. A girl who wants to spend some time with me. Who if I ask if she wants to do something and she doesn't, she'll just say no instead of ignore me.

Just give me a girl who cares about me.

And then there was one.

I look at all the other pages of the journal of last semester, to find that their pens have run dry and the creativity has died. Maybe it lives on somewhere else but damn. I miss you guys. Maybe you all should start posting again?

And I sit

In front of this screen hoping to see something from you, constantly refreshing all my feeds hoping for a word from your lips. Decaying. I'm rotting away.

The somnious.

My dreams are the only place I can go to hear your voice tell me how you feel. The streets of Paris are empty and the rain has been dried with the acrylics of the canvas painting we never started.

The colors of my dreams are stuck inside the bottle of paint and sorrow, waiting to be squeezed out by your hands, the one not holding the paint brush of my every breath.

Just take the watercolors of my wanderlust and rewet the pavement of my Paris and the canvas of my heart, because they're dry and chapped, like the lips you never kissed, and the dried hands you never held, the hands that just wrote and wrote and wrote.

Wrote of my sadness and the desaturated tears that fell from the black pits of my nectar filled heart. And I wander these streets bare feet and blind eyed, just feeling and hearing and smelling the air of my dreams as it breezes past me through the streets and down the alleys where the deepest thoughts of my mind reside.

Just please give me a sign or maybe some hope that maybe some day ill get to call you mine.

Block of the writer

So my dear. I've known you for a while. And the time I've spent hiding what I feel has been like a sack of bricks weighing my heart to the bottomless pit of my stomach. And now I can show you what I think and how I feel, but the ignorance I see is more than what you know. And the urges I have to love you now have become more than I can bear. So please just open your beautiful eyes and look into mine and kiss away the void that sits inside, because the swirling dark pits of my eyes so discrete, are sucking me in and tearing.

Me.

Apart.

Limb from limb they stretch me like I'm taffy, some bratty girl who won a gold ticket. I can't take the stress and the pain anymore. Please just read this and untie the rope. Take from me the bottle and blade I hold dear. And give me the strength I need to stay here.

Oh God it rhymed.

I'm done.

I'm so done here.

It's been a while.

Why do I fall in love with every woman who gives me the least bit of attention?



It's like if a wonderful attractive young woman waved at me, I act like it means that she wants to sleep with me.

Half the time I'm right..... But that's not the point.

Because when I'm wrong I don't know it and i'll aspire for you. And I'll want your touch. Your kiss. The feel of you against me. To know that all this time I've known you has not been in vain.


I don't even know who I'm writing this for.

There are a few of you that I guess could apply to. But you're not gonna read it anyway. It's like talking to a brick wall.

Like I'm amplifying the sound of my dry hoarse voice through the hole in the noose.

So just slip on through and let the cold black embrace you.