Stop

I’ll hold you close and never let you go-

trace gypsum lines in the sand with effervescent ideals

until you’re nothing more than ragged crescendo

In the middle of my operetta.

 

Sit still for a second,

quiet your ebullience and personality,

You harbinger of

Surreptitious broadcasts and elongated choruses,

and harmonize old big-band tunes

from rusted jazz-age speakers.

 

Take those old torn pictures that can’t be sent

and thoughts that won’t be heard

And wrap yourself in their comforting smell.

Set ablaze those old thoughts that,

One day,

You’ll be good enough.

 

Feel the embrocation of gospel on your skin

and listen, just for a moment

to the Heartbeat of the bricks that line your walls.

Spill your soul onto the pages and

Who cares if it’s not enough?

 

Write your story in the blood of your enemies,

called self-loathing and imperfection,

Until you hold nothing but a dalliance with divinity.

Nirvana is your name, you arbalest,

Flying free and letting loose those bolts

that tear through empty whisky bottles

and upturned reading glasses.

 

Gesture to the world that you love

and fall on martyred dreams

that can no longer come true.

Keep your heart hidden in calcium cages that creak

Just a little bit too much when you open the hinges.

 

Shatter those old perceptions of

2-way mirrors and ice-pick reflections;

Act out your stories in plays

and old maritime songs;

Rise above the others

And persuade their memories into nothingness

and embrocation of insouciance on their skin.

 

Don’t you dare give up,

not for a second,

You Jeweled-Hummingbird

and builder of homes.

Just because tomes of years long past say otherwise

Doesn’t mean you’ll fail.

 

Learn to accept that not every word that tumbles

from your numbed lips and sealed eyelids

Will result in rooftile thoughts, gleaming hot and bright.

Gather the folds of your shredded aspirations

And stitch them into flags of independence

and newspaper clippings.

 

Imagine a universe of nothing but yarn

held together by non-existant gossamers

and a little bit of duct-tape.

String it around your clenched fists

and fasten your reality to it

until it pulls you further and further down

So you can march across empty battlefields

and endless battalions.

 

Obey no one

But follow yourself

Until your hopes are scattered in heaps

across teenage bedroom floors

And are written into Lana Del Ray songs.

Rinse yourself of all the bucolic sins

that emulate the empty hollows of your soul

In your veins. Imbue them with cotton-candy kisses

and ephemeral carousel rides.

 

You are my platinum dipped rose,

velvet whispers, and cigarette smoke inhalations-

Caught in endless fishing nets, so drape me in your

Cacophony of piano wire nooses and violin bows

And write me into your symphony.