The Outlook

believe when i say,
i don't even know what it's like
to live without the sadness.
sometimes i sit beneath a canopy of plastic stars. 
eyes glazed with the hurt and the violent questions 
of is it real. are we ever real? suppose, we are sent 
on the face of the earth to understand the self. it is haywire. 
like clockwork. we try to fix what is not broken. 
break what is mended. perhaps the heart is made of fine china. 
pretty on the outside but perfectly fragile,
and sometimes not handled with care. 
believe when i say,
there are days i don't even feel like 
trying anymore. 
sometimes i look in people's windows. 
see a life i have not lived, feel the ache of wanting 
throb inside me like a ball of fire that's about to burst
and burn me in my sleep. but time keeps ticking anyway 
just to remind me that my soul remains unchanged. 
trust me when i say,
i don't really want to stay in the same place forever. 
not when the sun is calling out my name, 
and the horizon outlines the image of my future. 
maybe there is that light that slips through the crack in the door.
when i hold out my hand, it swings wide open and i run outside 
bare foot where i meet the warmth of the last days of my youth. 
and my heart races despite the ache. 
and my mind forgets to ask the questions. 
and if we ever meet face to face, i’d ask you to climb a tree with me, 
and we’ll see the world from above and feel a little big for a while.



lysarchived. 06/29/24.