if language was a ship it would sink more deep than earth usually allows, it would tackle layers of ocean floors and what is now known as the Hadalpelagic Zone would be coined with an urban term that spells out my entire name, and the word “mysterious” would slowly undress itself presenting the dooming of a yellow virgin body, it would respect the eyes of a healing dawn clearing past the mountains, it will sparkle and share a dance with tranquility while daytime comets smear the sky in glows shared by eyes of a pagan goddess that patiently remains spread for the moment words are needed no longer. love will never again be a mystery…and….
if writing was a garden it’s flower would only grow above forgotten bodies neatly trimmed to a graveyard that has not been touched in measurement of time we’re too stupid to understand, even trees have lost count of the dead who have been left polished as top dollar dolls, yet the dead can listen to the aches of my bad grammar slithering through the haunting soil, roots of withering asphodels weaving by my diluted poems are more thick than chalk outlines make a once special person a mediocre sillohoutte that fails to (capture the) honor (of) the essence swalled by their loved ones the one painted inside…
if emotions were drunk drivers – they would drive used school buses through the road blocks that end our sentences. they would peer off the cliffs of quotes we hiked miles to share sunsets with, and fall off the edge of our drunken journal entries and looking back would become a habit too ugly to make our bodies fit inside a dictionary. our struggles, which will be boiling off our tongues, will sweat out off the foreheads of anyone in despairing notions with mouths full the homeless will feed off the tables shared by a king which empathy makes his crown grow) could write they would speed through road blocks that end a proper sentence and peer off the corners of every book, leaving a trail of explanations made of separated quotes and slipped paragraphs
if emotions were letters they would sink so deeply into a page it would soon tear open and everything we wish could have had the chance to express would shoot to the floor leaving trails of moments rather than trails of cigarette buds. co dependacy would never exist as every attempt to go back towards people who aren’t good for us is smothered with
if words were priced and stocked on run down markets, you would find swear words red tagged tucked at the bottom of the aisle with broken head lights. humility would be expensive because a percentage of society, specifically a percentage higher than the word can ever be bought, will protest the half-empty car lots in bold rhymes and frothy poster board statements and dragging them to violent outbreaks. riots will seep through the canals of city streets and groups of masked covered militia soldiers will inspire hopeless youth to seek a future where voice becomes weapon
if words we wished we didn’t write were to become planted beneath the soil of a garden,
they could only be watered by the short stories and shameful truths no one could know of, spring would last a years because the sun would promise to warm the mistakes that have made your body cold. they would bloom in colors vivid and tall and when you have aged a lifetime the seeds of a person once teeming with regret unfold gracefully/ wholesomely past the clouds where the divine eagerly await the moment they are privileged to say , “we have been waiting you”!
because the trail leading to positions we have moved on from would be smothered throughout the forest our arrogance has left behind.