I am at the nadir, striving for a glimpse of the life of a polymath.
I thought I caught a strand of it
waving about in the air
but it was just an adage, floating around my head
perhaps in it.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.

I am secrets and lies and discrepencies.
I am buried beneath a sea of bantering giants, crushing upon decadent bits of myself.
They keep me quiet and close to the edge.

I can’t harbour them for much longer.
How long can one live without a spine?

I want you to take me into something else.
I need to pretend I’m not living here, inside by myself.
I want you to write into me and recycle me into something new.
I could be a chair, a typewriter, or an epic novel transitory on requited lovers movements.

You could knit me into a sweater. I’d never unravel at the seams. I’ll be your pocket for a cold hand, the firmament of your heart. I’ll be your paladin, your sylvan nymph, we’ll dance in the woods.

I’ll be the warm on your cheek from your ever last kiss, a mélange of orange and honey-suckle putting you to sleep. I need you to make use of me. Make use of this waste, bring it anew.

I am clay for you to mold. I am your empty canvas.  This is my kismet. To be made new.
I am uncultivated space. I am barely here.  I need you to let me,  because here I squander in my oblivion. I am wallowing in my cowardice because I can’t make use of what I may or may not have.

Make me.
Make me.

- – - -
I don’t think that you could ever understand. Everyone keeps falling down.
Some thing’s are better left unsaid. I could stay here in the middle
and speak to you in riddles but I’d rather just feel the burn

Some things I keep to myself
some things are better left unsaid
sometimes I feel like this could burden me and I
and some things I’ll never ever tell
—