MGMT: Kids
You were a child,
crawlin' on your knees toward it.
Makin' mama so proud,
but your voice is too loud.
We like to watch you laughing.
Pickin' insects off plants.
No time to think of consequences.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wanting,
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
The water is warm,
but its sending me shivers.
A baby is born,
crying out for attention.
Memories fade,
like looking through a fogged mirror
Decisions to decisions are made and not fought
But I thought,
this wouldn't hurt a lot.
I guess not.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
08 April 2009
05 April 2009
We Made Them With Our Hands
The daffodils bloomed for the first time
since last spring,
when I grappled with basic instinct
to not be alone.
The daffodils bloomed and I thought
I could grasp the depth of
shades of yellow and blue
and so I fell into existences
that I never really knew;
The circles I walked in,
the paths I created in
my endless pacing and erasing
of the things I thought I knew
was like gesturing the motions
in an exhibition of the greatest
theatrical show.
The daffodils began to bloom
and I told you the names of flowers;
I tell you the names of flowers
and hands hover before the
stalks, because I want them to grow
and for us to grow and share
what beautiful minds we could
share with the world and the
beautiful pictures I paint
with the words that come from somewhere,
or maybe they come from nowhere
when I lie to myself and
pretend that we are all sleeping
without our eyes open.
But really we are watching, constantly measuring
the beat of our hearts and the strength of our pulse
and I measure the amount of time that has
passed and I measure the amount of my heart
that lasts inside of your heart because
I sometimes like to tell you what I'm thinking
or why I'm laughing and I sometimes like
to be the person that I really am and that I have found
after the pacing and the sleeping or not sleeping
and the murmurings that I don't understand, that the wind blew it away
and without the directions how will we ever
find our way? Improvising and advertising
our inability to find the perfect fit
but in the palm of my hands I fit more than a
stone that is flat and perfect for skipping,
more than a bracelet made of buttons,
more than a few rejected photographs. In my hands
I find the handful of memories that I will
take with me and keep in my pockets for safe keeping
when the world is asking why and I am saying because
I said so, because it is so, because it was so,
because we are so
fantastical and fanatical, unique and [aunque]
what's with the smile, or the long face
that follows you outside of your mind
and into my life? There is something
behind the motions and your fingers
that feel the side of my face and the
back of my spine,
and we arch in and out of our most
famous and most fettered frequencies,
I want to share with you
the wings of the butterflies that I
saved for all those years, in wooden boxes from
my grandmother. Those boxes smelled like another
world where butterflies never belonged, but I
kept them there in case that was where it was supposed to be,
so we can extend its wings for it and see the patterns
in its outspread span; our horizons are filled
with accidental rows of yellow daisies
and I touch them with the tips of my fingers;
the same fingers that felt the heat of the liquid
that I kept in my cup for some safe keeping,
and some comfort when the sun rises too early
and I find the street alone where I once thought
that was true. But the streetlight stayed on
through the entire day, and it never questioned why
it had to work so hard to light a world that was
already lit with the rays of the sun.
And the streetlight accompanied me,
and I never had to face the opposite
of light on my own as I take the path up to the
road and walk down the edge of the cement where
the pebbles begin to break free and take
flight into another world.
The daffodils bloom next to the road
and I think of how we talk about
the names of things and how we
will never know the names of all
the things in the world. The daffodils
bloom and I picture the future of the
millions of flowers that were cut
to be presented to the prettiest women,
as more than words, words other than 'I love you'.
But they are blooming and I am holding up the
light so that we can see in the night;
we can see in the night and I will always
be thinking of the first time I met you.
http://mellotroniac.deviantart.com/art/Daffodils-112710540
since last spring,
when I grappled with basic instinct
to not be alone.
The daffodils bloomed and I thought
I could grasp the depth of
shades of yellow and blue
and so I fell into existences
that I never really knew;
The circles I walked in,
the paths I created in
my endless pacing and erasing
of the things I thought I knew
was like gesturing the motions
in an exhibition of the greatest
theatrical show.
The daffodils began to bloom
and I told you the names of flowers;
I tell you the names of flowers
and hands hover before the
stalks, because I want them to grow
and for us to grow and share
what beautiful minds we could
share with the world and the
beautiful pictures I paint
with the words that come from somewhere,
or maybe they come from nowhere
when I lie to myself and
pretend that we are all sleeping
without our eyes open.
But really we are watching, constantly measuring
the beat of our hearts and the strength of our pulse
and I measure the amount of time that has
passed and I measure the amount of my heart
that lasts inside of your heart because
I sometimes like to tell you what I'm thinking
or why I'm laughing and I sometimes like
to be the person that I really am and that I have found
after the pacing and the sleeping or not sleeping
and the murmurings that I don't understand, that the wind blew it away
and without the directions how will we ever
find our way? Improvising and advertising
our inability to find the perfect fit
but in the palm of my hands I fit more than a
stone that is flat and perfect for skipping,
more than a bracelet made of buttons,
more than a few rejected photographs. In my hands
I find the handful of memories that I will
take with me and keep in my pockets for safe keeping
when the world is asking why and I am saying because
I said so, because it is so, because it was so,
because we are so
fantastical and fanatical, unique and [aunque]
what's with the smile, or the long face
that follows you outside of your mind
and into my life? There is something
behind the motions and your fingers
that feel the side of my face and the
back of my spine,
and we arch in and out of our most
famous and most fettered frequencies,
I want to share with you
the wings of the butterflies that I
saved for all those years, in wooden boxes from
my grandmother. Those boxes smelled like another
world where butterflies never belonged, but I
kept them there in case that was where it was supposed to be,
so we can extend its wings for it and see the patterns
in its outspread span; our horizons are filled
with accidental rows of yellow daisies
and I touch them with the tips of my fingers;
the same fingers that felt the heat of the liquid
that I kept in my cup for some safe keeping,
and some comfort when the sun rises too early
and I find the street alone where I once thought
that was true. But the streetlight stayed on
through the entire day, and it never questioned why
it had to work so hard to light a world that was
already lit with the rays of the sun.
And the streetlight accompanied me,
and I never had to face the opposite
of light on my own as I take the path up to the
road and walk down the edge of the cement where
the pebbles begin to break free and take
flight into another world.
The daffodils bloom next to the road
and I think of how we talk about
the names of things and how we
will never know the names of all
the things in the world. The daffodils
bloom and I picture the future of the
millions of flowers that were cut
to be presented to the prettiest women,
as more than words, words other than 'I love you'.
But they are blooming and I am holding up the
light so that we can see in the night;
we can see in the night and I will always
be thinking of the first time I met you.
http://mellotroniac.deviantart.com/art/Daffodils-112710540
We Come Unprepared
we are basic creatures, striving for the basics of life. we thrive on the simple conditions that unfold in our lives, washing over us like waterfalls; we pace our world, even in sleep. we stand in our environment, dismayed at the beauty; the sun rises and sets over our city, our home, our street.
words drift from our lips, bodies quivering through meaning.
what miracles emerge in the reflection in your eyes
when I stand a few feet away;
pacing and praying, I bide my precious time.
I bought the flowers in the market
and placed them in a vase
on the wooden table where we often meet.
conversing in the candlelight,
performing the conversations and stories
of our unrehearsed lives.
where were you walking to
when I saw you on the corner last night;
your expression told me you were lost
and wandering.
or perhaps you were wondering
how the dark of night came upon us so quickly;
we found ourselves unprepared.
I often pace the bounds of these streets,
looking up each time with some small hope
that something new will appear.
it is at such moments that I blink
and come to prophetize about the greatest changes;
we have yet to know the reverberations
of circumstances beyond our ranges; we will come and go.
simple truths, we are not jaded.
I don't like to believe that the flowers in the vase will die;
or that they're already dead.
the sun sets again, and dusk brings the quiet
that comes with night in this town.
when will we next come undone
I stand only a breaths distance from you,
and yet I find I am missing you.
I'd like to travel in your mind and your memory;
do not erase, but embrace that which has come and gone.
http://april182.deviantart.com/art/Ghost-of-a-future-lost-118223543
words drift from our lips, bodies quivering through meaning.
what miracles emerge in the reflection in your eyes
when I stand a few feet away;
pacing and praying, I bide my precious time.
I bought the flowers in the market
and placed them in a vase
on the wooden table where we often meet.
conversing in the candlelight,
performing the conversations and stories
of our unrehearsed lives.
where were you walking to
when I saw you on the corner last night;
your expression told me you were lost
and wandering.
or perhaps you were wondering
how the dark of night came upon us so quickly;
we found ourselves unprepared.
I often pace the bounds of these streets,
looking up each time with some small hope
that something new will appear.
it is at such moments that I blink
and come to prophetize about the greatest changes;
we have yet to know the reverberations
of circumstances beyond our ranges; we will come and go.
simple truths, we are not jaded.
I don't like to believe that the flowers in the vase will die;
or that they're already dead.
the sun sets again, and dusk brings the quiet
that comes with night in this town.
when will we next come undone
I stand only a breaths distance from you,
and yet I find I am missing you.
I'd like to travel in your mind and your memory;
do not erase, but embrace that which has come and gone.
http://april182.deviantart.com/art/Ghost-of-a-future-lost-118223543
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