Positivism (I-III)
Positivism (i)
I live with a continuous line of Stood-ups
With an endless supply of Almosts
An eternal sea of What ifs
In an infinite sea of ghosts
Though, I grabbed the tree by the root
I picked the rose by her thorn
I was given the earth by her entrails
Allowing my skin to be torn
I still sleep with scabless gashes
Restlessly refusing to scar
They rip me open every night
Keeping my body ajar
So it seems that I must last forever
If I’ve already lasted this long
You see, I cease to move in blood
And this healing has been prolonged
But I shall take this needle and thread
And willfully puncture my skin
I will mend and sew up my own wounds
In the only way I could win
And the Almosts continue to follow me
The What ifs never leave
The Stood-ups still pierce my swollen heart
But in one piece I’ll grieve.
Positivism (ii)
This is the world in which I live
This is my great war
The floors in my world are slanted
The words cry down the door
The window’s cracked above my head
The walls are mossy and wet
I suckle on the mildew’s claim
I taste the moldy regret
This is the world in which I live
This is my overcast sky
These are the tears in the clothes I wear
Hidden from the naked eye
The wood has rotted under my feet
The silver spoon has tarnished
No sunlit beams could brighten my path
Such strength I ache to harness
This is the world in which I live
And the last I’ll get to fulfill
The doors may be off their hinges
But the knobs are working still
And while my floor is slanted
It has proven a helpful lead
For now I grasp these crooked words
In a language I can read
And this is the world in which I live
And not a world to secede
I feel this heartbeat in my chest
What more could vivacity need?
Positivism (iii)
Don’t let the blood control you
Don’t let the gore take rule
These words may seem so hollow now
Chaos may seem so fooled
Don’t let the alcohol drown you
Before it’s distilled your thoughts
There’s not enough proof in the numbers
There’s not enough punch in the shots
Your echo lurks in empty rooms
Your shadow rests in vacant seats
Waiting to be more than Almosts
Waiting to be more concrete
And if broken silences speak too loud
Please keep your revolts mute
They’ll be etched into your gravestone
In a claim you can’t dispute
Don’t let the blood control you
Don’t let your plasma tie knots
One simple cut should not drain you
Your lucid gashes will clot
Don’t focus on the spaces
Don’t leak through barricades
Your strength in keeping assembled
Shall be your mighty grenades.
