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Crossing over
《TW: mentions and desc of gun violence/guns》
___________
The sparkly fuzzy atmosphere of grainy box tvs and purple haze drifts across my mind. Flora climbing the white concrete walls as water surrounds the platform I sit atop In my mind.
It feels like floating in an iridescent bubble in a sea of tar,
A pink delicate rose taken by the violent waves of the Atlantic,
concealed to ones self-
mentally intoxicated from the personal idealism smothering my mind.
Porcelain shards and pearls surround my heart messily as I dip back into the world's I wrote in my mind,
flipping those pages, watching them blur back into that same lavender haze,
letting time rewind.
Coming back into my fantasy world from the black thickened oil and gel reality slathers me with,
cleansed by the watercolor rays of sun bearing down.
And as I sit with my mannequins and music, I dot my "I"s and cross my "T"s with red hearts.
dot my "I"s and cross my "T"s
watch my eyes fall to meet the door's window screen.
The glitter and gloss of my fantasies are power washed by the very real reality I'm forced to lead.
dot my "I"s, cross my "T"s
Dark classrooms and harrowing screams
dot my "I"s and cross my "T"s
Watch your step in the halls while your friends bleed
dot my "I"s and cross my "T"s
Pumped full of hot lead, how can you hear my screams and pleads when I'm already 6ft deep?
The pages of time go on forever while my life is seemingly a phrase on the yellowed page,
The book containing rows of numbers, names, statistics, a moral maze.
My existence so easily ignored and glossed over, the words conjuncting to form who I am squeezed ever closer-
confined to a stanza in a poem doomed to continue forever,
messily written with penmanship close to that of a third grader.
Maybe it was the same third grader who had a gun in their backpack.
A gun which that kid's parents should've been keeping close tabs over,
yet meanwhile in a place that should be a near sanctuary from the outside world, my life can get taken from me quicker than it takes to close a Google tab, it's done. It's over.
So now I have one foot in hell, one foot in liminal heaven.
The porcelain shielding my heart from the weight beared that is life's burdens.
And maybe I do appear to not mentally be here
and that's because up there in my mind,
I'm busy dotting my "I"s and cross my "T"s with tears.
__________
__________
© Rynne
___________
The sparkly fuzzy atmosphere of grainy box tvs and purple haze drifts across my mind. Flora climbing the white concrete walls as water surrounds the platform I sit atop In my mind.
It feels like floating in an iridescent bubble in a sea of tar,
A pink delicate rose taken by the violent waves of the Atlantic,
concealed to ones self-
mentally intoxicated from the personal idealism smothering my mind.
Porcelain shards and pearls surround my heart messily as I dip back into the world's I wrote in my mind,
flipping those pages, watching them blur back into that same lavender haze,
letting time rewind.
Coming back into my fantasy world from the black thickened oil and gel reality slathers me with,
cleansed by the watercolor rays of sun bearing down.
And as I sit with my mannequins and music, I dot my "I"s and cross my "T"s with red hearts.
dot my "I"s and cross my "T"s
watch my eyes fall to meet the door's window screen.
The glitter and gloss of my fantasies are power washed by the very real reality I'm forced to lead.
dot my "I"s, cross my "T"s
Dark classrooms and harrowing screams
dot my "I"s and cross my "T"s
Watch your step in the halls while your friends bleed
dot my "I"s and cross my "T"s
Pumped full of hot lead, how can you hear my screams and pleads when I'm already 6ft deep?
The pages of time go on forever while my life is seemingly a phrase on the yellowed page,
The book containing rows of numbers, names, statistics, a moral maze.
My existence so easily ignored and glossed over, the words conjuncting to form who I am squeezed ever closer-
confined to a stanza in a poem doomed to continue forever,
messily written with penmanship close to that of a third grader.
Maybe it was the same third grader who had a gun in their backpack.
A gun which that kid's parents should've been keeping close tabs over,
yet meanwhile in a place that should be a near sanctuary from the outside world, my life can get taken from me quicker than it takes to close a Google tab, it's done. It's over.
So now I have one foot in hell, one foot in liminal heaven.
The porcelain shielding my heart from the weight beared that is life's burdens.
And maybe I do appear to not mentally be here
and that's because up there in my mind,
I'm busy dotting my "I"s and cross my "T"s with tears.
__________
__________
© Rynne
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