confession

this is a poem. i wrote it many places, on the grass in isla vista and on the train from normandy and on a bridge over the seine. 

it is about everything.

confession

if i only watched my life
through cherry blossom windows,
my breath fogging up the glass,
my love notes burned to piles of ash,
i'd tear the walls down
[burn them to nothing]
just to get some air
never have been good with fences
i need my space, my lettercase
i see in purple-
purple flowers, purple mazes,
purple skyscrapers' foundations
come sit with with me in the fountain,
and we'll write our own revelation
our own new [people's] gospel
scrawled in the margins of our pages
love letters soaked in lemon juice
we paste to the walls of our cages
because it matters.
because we think, and therefore, are
because we're nothing without all the things we'll never know for sure
and if the life without
ever broke in
to our elaborate caricature
we'd fall apart
without our art
because it matters

-now it matters.
we'll start a roses' revolution-
forget the sun, we''ll build our own
we're the sum of everything we do,
so let's do SOMETHING
while there's still chrysanthemums in your hair
the clouds are rushing to your rescue
but they'll never take you back
and the flowers are calling
and the walls are falling
and the wind and the whispers are calling my name
-but tell me, what's in a name, juliet,
whats in a name?
to name is to remember
to remember is to love
and to love is to exist
all we can ever hope to be
the looking glasss through which we see
our center and our deity
our highest of philosophies
our shot at immortality
that's why it matters- it matters
maybe nothing else matters
but the secret life of flowers that will be burned into your grave
my grave
our chrysallis
where heart beat meets wing beat
and the bones of what was become to cornerstones
of what will be,
where every day is the first day of our lives.

we are freed by our grief,
by the constant process of
resurrection, dust collection,
inevitable insurrection
that we need to survive
maybe we're only really alive
if we're collecting shattered pieces
that made up who we [thought we] were.
and that matters. it matters.

because i was never blind in love,
only brave, which is maybe worse
and i never saw they sun the way i saw it in your eyes
and i dont believe in secrets
but i do believe in lies
and what the flowers symbolize
the secrets of the butterflies
and the gasoline on my fingertips
gives away my guilt
and im still reeling from the recoil
and i cant run from them now
but the windows just werent big enough
and i had to get out

now its falling all around us
and im glad to see it burn
watch the memories, destinies
erupt in a nuclear burst
and i am laying in the middle
of a busy downtown street
watching the ashes fall around me
in a storm of burning leaves.
an ember falls upon my lips,
and i am freed by this confession
my obsession with resurrection
drowning in this, my clearest vision
of a secret i'll never tell
a masterpiece ill never sell
a tolling bell
a twilight's unknown spell
a fortune powerless to tell
its own destiny
and this ecstacy
of antipoetic testimony
will someday set me free
if i have to tell it a hundred thousand times
in every rhythm, every rhyme,
you'll hear the truth pour
from every rolling stone
and whispering firefly

because it matters.