7 More Days

7 more days 'til I go,
Getting rid of everything old,
But nothing new ever fits the same,
So many tears, so few to blame.


7 more days 'til I go,
Wishing I could see everyone I know,
Every face I'm leaving behind,
Their bodies stay, but the memories are mine, are mine.

I'm always telling myself the same stories,
Always waiting for the same glories,
But nothing's gonna come sleeping away my days,
Praying for life to change, praying for life to change.


7 more days 'til I go,
Running away from my only home,
Doesn't matter, it's only a name,
The place is cold, my heart is freezin'.


7 more days 'til I go,
Boxes packed, luggage is stowed,
Flying through clouds and dreams,
My eyes are closed but I can't sleep.

I'm always telling myself the same stories,
Always waiting for the same glories,
Falling asleep to the same old songs,
Crying over the same old wrongs.

I'm always telling myself the same stories,
Always waiting for the same glories,
But nothing's gonna come sleeping away my days,
Praying for life to change, praying for life to change,
Praying for life to change, praying for life to change.

------

Started writing this a week before moving to Toronto. Finished it just now. It's a song with a melody, but I can't translate the melody through words, but here we are.


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My Home.

My home.

Walls so sturdy and firm even the heaviest experiences will hold.

Photos in leaden frames, large smiles behind glass thick with dust.

I stand back, examining my life, fragmented and stained with longing,

A mausoleum for my misplaced affections.

Moments of love captured through the lens of sadness, now hanging on my walls.

Walls so sturdy and firm, even the heaviest experiences will hold.

Today, I see a crack.

_________________________

Not sure how I feel about this. I'm worried it's too sentimental and isn't really saying anything that interesting or honest. I work too deeply in elaborate metaphores. I want to come out of my literary shell and speak from the heart. I like the idea of the last line but I don't feel it really fits.

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Somethings Never Change

I still hide chocolate in little nooks around the house,
Behind a pile of books,
In a small pocket of a school bag,
Under the pillow.


The other night when opening a cupboard I saw the blue wrapper, two squares left.
My moment of glee brought me to the thought of you.
Had you been there we'd have shared, and though I had all the more to myself,
I wanted to place the extra piece, already sticky with my finger prints, into your palm.
To share this little joy with someone who would understand.


Though diluted by time and efforts to forget, I can still hear your laughter, feel your affection.


The refrigerators hum brings me back to my kitchen.
I see that I am alone, the wrapper empty.

I throw it away, and return to my desk, wishing I had not opened the cupboard.


--------------


I want to find a better way to express arriving back from the moment of longing, but otherwise am fairly pleased.


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Rebuilding.

I'd like to expand on and tidy up this metaphore, but here it is, just as it came into my mind.
______

I had a book of Me, and I've spent a lot of time tearing out these pages of myself, crumpling them into balls and throwing them away. There's a big pile. What I need to do is to go through each of these discarded pages, each a piece of myself,  open them up, smooth them out, and rebuilt myself, page by page, into a stronger, sturdier work of art.


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Aching for the Past.

The story has ended;
Suddenly whilst reading the pages ran out.
I rub my fingers against the corner of the last page.
Perhaps two have stuck together,
clinging to each other for fear of the end.
No such luck.
I flip to the front to begin again, but every word is faded, impossible to decipher.
It's as if they never were.


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Failing

I have loved you more than I can say, and what words I have are failing.

My minds pages cracked and dry, my spine ruptured, slowly breaking.

My cover faded and vague.

Your face, faded and vague.

Looking through myself I expect to find many stories and tales,

But each one is writ over with your name, only your name.

I have loved you more than I could say, and what words I have, have failed.

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