Science tells us that
the entire world gravitates
that every atom
holding our fragile lives together
is falling apart.
Those 2 A.M. nights
when the salt water
in your lungs burned
and you couldn’t see a way out-
The boy who stabbed you with smiles-
Your brave sister,
your hopeless father,
your beautiful mother-
So, what’s the point, kid?
If we’re all marching toward an impending doom,
what’s the fucking point?
Science doesn’t tell us what to do
before the chaos we’re all hurtling toward.
And kid, that’s because science is full of shit.
Science only tells us the outcome,
not the desperately important in-between bits-
the ugly and terrible and painful,
the magnificent and lovely and magical
bits that sew up a life.
So, kid, you’ve got to live,
and not just that stoic existence you’ve
been stomping trough all this time.
You’ve got to be kind,
you’ve got to fall in love,
fall out of love,
no matter how much it hurts
because my god,
it’s worth it.
Don’t let the world turn you to stone;
you’ve got to feel.
your heart will threaten
to march right out of your chest
because you’re so fucking full of it all-
of the people,
the endless days,
the eternal nights-
and kid, that’s fine.
Courage isn’t measured by the
number of people you’ve turned away
or by the counts of the nights you’ve
spent alone because you refuse to
give someone the chance to love you.
Being alone is not poetic;
you’ve got to let them in.
Let them peel back your skin
and waltz into your bloodstream
and love them,
And finally, kid,
your life has already begun.
Chaos is already underway.
My theory is entropy.
This isn’t supposed to make sense.
That’s the only way I can find to explain you. Explain that I am…
Drowning: While you remain safely on the shore, wondering why I’m all wet
Some stories just don’t have endings–the dissipation of matter beyond its present state, expanding further and further into the far reaches of the unvierse.
I can’t figure this out. I can’t figure out why I can feel all of this, can feel my very atoms being rearranged into loving you, and not be loved back.
I can’t figure out why I’m getting torn apart by the very force that holds humanity together.
How is it that I can go through so much in life, and I am defined by my capability to feel this kind of pain? How is it that I could tell any story, but this is the only one I can’t stop telling?
I know I am contributing to the flux of the universe,
with every broken line.
I am matter, I matter,
is equal to
the weight of the words you say,
the ones I write
My volume is
the sound of my heart breaking.
Oh, but self-loathing was just so enticing, so holy, so unassailable! The cynic in him cried, Take my hope! Take my life! Who cares? As if surrender could make up for his failures or help the people he loved. What a lie to think he could whip himself to redemption. What a loathsome lie!
So you’re the poet girl of entropy
He is unfortunately likeable
And disastrously funny
He loves the same books as you
You tried, stubbornly you attempted
You talked about love like it wasn’t happening
Hoping for order to assert itself
And gravity to reverse
Fierce little poet
You never stood a chance
The oceans, the skies
That afflicting starlight
Your heart bleeds tragedy
You write yourself
Into breaking apart
He’s all you can see
You doomed yourself
For a handwritten note
Entropy, my darling
You’re falling unevenly
And the words stumble out
He will never take your hand
You will build a story
And he will build a life
He won’t put you in it
Such is your fate
Purveyor of entropy
It’s such an intimate eternity, in which time’s arrow is determined not by entropy but by memory, where anything that happened once can happen once again, and where to be alive is to be continued—living in the present, lingering in the past, and always waiting on the threshold, poised to begin.
John Koethe, on living in time, from “The Reality of the Past,” in ROTC Kills
“In silence they moved together, Harry holding Louis’ hand without hesitation, as Louis both pulled and guided him out of the pouring rain until they were inside once again. It wasn’t more than a few moments of relieved breaths and involuntary shivers as the warmth engulfed them before Harry noticed their faces were almost touching.”
I have a knocking woodpecker in my heart and I think I have
One for love one for poetry and one for acting out my insane self
Not insane but boring but perpendicular but untrue but true
The three rarely sing together