Crisp kisses under white moonlight,
Hard lines and cold fingers touching,
Hoping for just a breath of warmth
How can two cold souls make fire
When in our hearts there is only ice
Left over from that frozen wasteland
There is no return of that wildfire
That once burned so fiercely for us.
Where once we danced to delicious moments
Trapped in time by sensual silence,
Our words on paper so short and fragile
Delicate and hot, soft and sweet
Tense touch shaking and sweating
No skin unbared by the ideas we shared.
For there is nothing like to find your mind in her
And know there is nothing to do
but to destroy yourself to preserve
that beauty you once saw in another.
For if I had to inspire, I would be lost.
The damned don’t seek inspiration, but release.
I am already released, uninhibited by the flaws I tried to sort
Categorize into neat piles in neat rows,
So that maybe if they were pretty I could be pretty too.
But I am the sum of my parts
And parts of me are not whole at all
Holes in which the darkness of the world seeps through,
Slithering seeping in like snakes and sadness
And all the good in me struggles to stay afloat
Among the mire of misplaced intentions and bad judgement.
Who am I to inspire with the wasted years and endless empty promises
Broken records skipping in a beat I have learned to dance to quite well.
Again, again, again I convince myself that everything will turn out
When does this record end, does it ever?
It never does.
Why then, don’t I seek my own inspiration?
That would mean admitting that my own flaws,
So neatly sorted,
Are real and more than the sum of my being.