Annar in the Inbetweens

Sometimes, you’ve got to lose everything to see what you’ve got sittin’ in front of you. It was all smoke ‘n’ mirrors for as far as I could see, back in my mind; back in my memories. It’s all felt like distractions ‘n’ tricks coated with enemies and newfound failures tinged with disappointment in this empire I thought I built, I thought I owned—but I’ve been fooled. You’ve probably been fooled too. We don’t own a thing; we barely own ourselves. This truth aches me as much as it sets me free.

We stood there,
           in search of lights,
          with eyes bloodshot.
          peering into the blackness
          and disarray of the inbetweens,
          bug-eyed and self-aware of every breathe,
                               lungs detracting
          and the loudness of one’s lips parting.

souls sifting, tapping with energy, like fingers,
for walls, tables, earth and chairs
                              to sit on
                               lean on,
                                
                                 lay on.

In the darkness,
in search of lights,
that is where we are,
 that is where we’ll always be,
                               in the empty spaces
                               that cannot be filled.
                               in the places of the mind
                               that cannot be fulfilled.

annarverold:

Still nights,
            when the howling of the wind and the
            barking of the dogs and the
            broken air and broken time are cut up by the creaking fan.

           when the ghosts begin to touch your face and you
           can’t digest the blood you’ve shed,
           while the bastard dogs keep howling,
           and you’re sitting up gawking at the
           broken air and broken time dripping from the creaking fan.











 

For so long, I felt as if I was a fading light, growing dimmer and dimmer with each thought, each movement, each beating of the ocean waves, of my mind, of my heart. Sometimes, we get lucky and just as we’re burning out, we find a love that saves us.

I think you matter and I
think you’re beautiful.

And I have a hard time lookin’
at most of you in the eye,
‘cause my mind’s always racing
and my mind’s always foggy,
and I can’t see or hear anything past
the haze and loudness of my thoughts.

But I know you matter and I
know you’re beautiful and I
am sorry that the only time I
ever have the courage to speak
is in between our dreams. 

Be still, be still, be still—
so I can sing and show you how
to shake off that despair
and dream of flames
and touch the things
that soon will turn to dust.

So you can hear the Gods scream:
“We need to leave and let this die!”




 

Still nights,
            when the howling of the wind and the
            barking of the dogs and the
            broken air and broken time are cut up by the creaking fan.

           when the ghosts begin to touch your face and you
           can’t digest the blood you’ve shed,
           while the bastard dogs keep howling,
           and you’re sitting up gawking at the
           broken air and broken time dripping from the creaking fan.











 

Walking in the direction
of the cigarette smoke,
that’s how we’ll get home—
like the dragging fog
exhaled from our lips,
that moves like ghosts;
that moves like us;
like holy gems
and prodigal sons,
with no moon,
no moss.