i wish i didn’t see poetry in the freckled constellations scattered across your face
i wish the flooding of metaphors and similes would at least slow their pace
i wish i didn’t see how the leaves dance when wind runs through them like a melody
i wish love and sorrow weren’t the muses i chose and need to keep me company
i wish eyes were not windows to the soul
but just skin and bone
and organs i learned in science class
i wish rainbows and rain
and stormier days
were only the weather forecast
i want to face the cold hard facts but the world is a connect-the-dots on a kids menu and i am just a stupid, naive, little child in a world that’s too big for me to reach the top shelf
by myself
because i’m the type that grew up straining my eyes, draining batteries for my reading light
the type that loves to dream but hates going to sleep at 7:30pm bedtimes
but i’m tired now and it’s only 7 o’clock
“maybe it will stop,” she says,
sometimes
it
just
stops.
will i be better then?
when i shed my permanent rose tint like a dead skin
when i lose my ability to find beauty where there is none and never was
when i wake up from my dreamstate
when i attach weights to my shoes and come down from the clouds
back to the ground which is only dirt and rocks and nothing more
where life is not this or that but merely what it is
and nothing more
the death of the romantic will not be beautiful
it will be that and nothing more
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