Posts Tagged ‘conversation’

Verse 1:

I have a wild heart

It’s uncontrollable, that’s true

I fall in love a lot

See, I fell in love with you

I tried conversation

And I think I broke through your shell

You brought out the end, but

I’m still locked under your spell

CHORUS:

My heart breaks everytime I see you

My heart breaks every time you see me

My heart breaks everytime I see you

but I can’t look away

Verse 2:

Moving on‘s not easy

There are days it feels impossible

Sometimes I scream at you

Because I don’t feel whole at all

CHORUS

Bridge:

If there’s no closure

How can we keep our composure?

Your smile is fake

I sit in the back of your mind

Just tell me the truth

Like I told you

I’ve been waiting all this time

CHORUS X2

“Sometimes silence is the most effective weapon a person can wield.”-Original

Silence is golden.

Conversation is not my strong suit.

In fact, most people know me as being mute,

or simply quiet.

So finding the right words to say

to you is difficult. Each day,

I won’t deny it,

I want to say “hello”, and so much more.

But before I can, you close the door.

Do the worries cease?

Worries that I’ll say something wrong,

or that before I articulate you’ll be long

gone. Out like a breeze.

Words are

sometimes

the hardest things to find,

even for writers.

While writers have plenty of time

to search for a word

when seated at their desks,

in bullet-paced conversation

they have little

time to plumb the depths

of memorized vocabulary,

and they stumble

as all humans do.

So, this is how you make my heart go-

a nonstop drum. Knots in my stomach

and blood rising to color my face.

At times it seemed like we were

the only people in the room,

and I smiled.

I smiled at the little things you did,

whether you noticed them or not;

I smiled out of nerves

because you were so calm, and I was not;

I smiled like a fool

because we talked, and you listened.

This is a new experience for me-

not the bundle of nerves under my ribs,

to which you give an electric shock;

not the reddening of my face,

but the happiness from something so simple

and how I don’t mind these feelings

and I surprise myself

by how much I want them to stay.

Who am I

but a vague mouth

preaching and conversing

to millions of unseen faces

who cannot see the teeth or tongue,

who can only imagine 

the redness,

the whiteness.

Sweet lady,

you’ve shrunk to a corn husk,

your eyes bulge with water-weight,

you’re hunched over like a crescent moon.

Prattle on in Polish 

among the younger adults

who sip wine, that sour nectar.

 

I’m a ghost in the room.

I fade into the gray walls.

My disinterest fuels my observation,

and, if you’ll forgive me, my ignorance

towards announced recollection of days long gone 

(fond memories I’ll sneeze at in the future).

I notice the pot bellies– as one grays,

one grows out– the obsession with the menial,

and I realize I want glamour,

I want flashing lights and millions to know my name,

then I won’t be wide eyed, staring at a dog.

Then I’ll be able

to make conversation

with people who mutually want to,

to talk about things 

that actually have meaning.

Where would I rather be?

There are people here

who do not know me.

I know only their blood, not

their histories.

They talk of people I know,

the gray lady who died, my cousins;

they peruse photographs,

sorting and arranging landscapes.

I find it all uninteresting.

I distance myself–

a pale carp apart from these squawking birds.

As intriguing as

blue glass glaciers in Canada

and enormous fallen trees in California are

I’d rather their mysteries be saved for me,

for when I am old enough to journey

and pull the curtain of fog away

for even a small glimpse

at the present,

but these people are stuck

in the past.

We let the once overflowed well run dry.

But now, I’ve opened up a brown parcel,

opened the door of the cage and loosed birds,

anxiously pried open a slimy clam,

opened a gray can without a label.

In their rooms they loved each other.

He kept a photograph of her,

she would write about him in her diary.

He would write songs about her.

She would write love letters to him.

In the darkness, he thought about her,

and she of him.

They imagined each others bodies, each others faces.

When they answered each other through meeting

they would smile, faces glowing red, as if from cold.

They would touch, shoulders rubbed gently,

hands clasping– the lock and the key.

They whispered promises to each other,

spoke of dreams in hushed tones filled with wonder.

They kissed, and felt each others’ warmth.

They woke to gray morning,

clouds filling the sky, turning it silver.

At their parting, each sighed.

When he turned one way, and she the other,

all the things they whispered

buzzed like static

in their minds.