Lucas Gonzalez
Cliff’s notes
Warm and alone, I feel at home.
Knowing everything about my striving uncertainty:
Held above a cliff
Where far below, the levels of deep, sad waters bubble up
To a surface smeared soft with time.
Cold and alone, I feel at home.
If I were to fall, if I were to claw at the strings of my own feeling,
Some tension would snap them; I would snap my neck trying to drag myself back
Up, not down, though the waters are deep.
Free and alone.
But why can’t I live
Up on that cliff, that peak of perception?
Where hindsight cowers, subservient to patient knowledge,
Where real life won’t exist, but feelings still persist
In poignant isolation.
Hurling through tangles,
Through weeds,
Towards sea-swamped rock
Grasping at my throat,
I wish my voice would carry over
The messiness of this mad dew:
The foggy shroud of unmade decisions.
Edited by: Maddy D.
Cliff’s notes
Warm and alone, I feel at home.
Knowing everything about my striving uncertainty:
Held above a cliff
Where far below, the levels of deep, sad waters bubble up
To a surface smeared soft with time.
Cold and alone, I feel at home.
If I were to fall, if I were to claw at the strings of my own feeling,
Some tension would snap them; I would snap my neck trying to drag myself back
Up, not down, though the waters are deep.
Free and alone.
But why can’t I live
Up on that cliff, that peak of perception?
Where hindsight cowers, subservient to patient knowledge,
Where real life won’t exist, but feelings still persist
In poignant isolation.
Hurling through tangles,
Through weeds,
Towards sea-swamped rock
Grasping at my throat,
I wish my voice would carry over
The messiness of this mad dew:
The foggy shroud of unmade decisions.
Edited by: Maddy D.
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