Brandon Flowers

And we're caught in the music.
It's swaying and sleeping
and filling
our fears.

In the midst of the crossfire
we take to the clouds
and run for
the images
that play in our
heads.

In between Heaven and Hell
the chaos is coming
to gather
us
all.

"And we're caught in the crossfire of
Heaven
and
Hell."

Rendezvousing and Dog Butts

Love is gross.

But I probably say that because the closest I've come to love is that awkward junior high relationship that's, like, a statement that you can be an adult as a thirteen-year-old.  Even though the whole thing consists of walking to the bus together and hugging in the hallways.  (Except, the school banned that and proclaimed it was PDA.

We did it anyway.)

Then you move on and a few years later there's that summer rendezvous which you know is doomed to end once the school bells start ringing.  I think this relationship exists so that a person can have someone to hang out with for three months.  It's a distraction; a brief source of entertainment; something to satisfy our hormones and hyped up emotions.  It's terminal.

And although I've experienced both of these, I've never been close to saying those three words that everyone foams at the mouth over.

I mean, I love my family and my friends and my dog.  (Especially my dog.)  And I've said it to all of them, but no one talks about that kind of love; no one wants to hear about that.

And the worst part is, I can't even tell if my dog understands me when I say it.  I mean, she wags her tail and rubs her butt against me, but is that love?

What is love, really?

I Don't Want to Write This

I remember the first time I heard you.  It rang in my ears and I knew it wasn't an accident and I felt it.
I felt your lack of presence.

I saw you waste away to nothing; a heap of graying flesh and bones.  I saw you pretend it wasn't happening.

It must have been tiring.  The excuses, the deceit.  Tip-toeing around yourself in order to keep the facade in check.  It must have been lonely.

I'm sorry you let this happen to you.  I'm sorry you let the deceptive nagging win.  I'm sorry I watched you break down.  Snot-faced and red-faced and crying.

It's like, I can't even help you.  I mean, you won't let me help you.  Really, you won't let me in.

You won't let anyone in because there's no room.  Because there's an ugly monster, gnashing it's teeth and rearing it's head.  And sometimes you let it loose.

Except, you're getting better.  Except, sometimes you falter.  Except, I don't know if you're healthy or taming.

I just want to know that everything's okay.

I just want to know that you're okay.

I just want to know, okay?

Man-Made Machine

There's this tension that I can't seem to shake.  It thrives in my lungs and my throat and escapes through my mouth.  It's this heaving; it's heavy breathing.

And now the world is quaking and everything I look at is shaking.  But that's just my hands.  They infect the things--the humans--they touch.

Except, it's all normal because I'm laughing.  I'm throwing my head back and my hair quivers because the noise erupting causes my body to erupt, too.  Because, I think, I'm programmed that way.

This is why.  I let distractions come if it means escaping the reality of what's happening to me.  I let you in and I let you in and I keep letting you in.  Because someone planted it in my system.

This is why.  I'm alive and I feel alive and I pretend I'm not pretending.

And it's my everyday routine.

This is why I'm a machine.