Written a Million Years Ago

My heart-tongued tongue seems to fiend a tongue-hearted pace,
lying on the bedroom floor,
unable to make for the door
or the stairs.

Yet magnetic attraction veers to
the pink,
or reddish pink,
magenta-seeming roof.

Desperate attempts for something you'd die for:
This notion for some reason baffles me.
All the more does the idea of self-sacrifice and things you think you hold dear,
Till lust, and an unfaithful God betrays.

And these all resemble a crane
being stapled to the ground trying to fly
- or some other aerial-like creature, creation.

My eyes are shut,
surely I can open them but I’m sure there’s invisible stitches suturing the two big fat wounds we’re given to realize harsh truths,
and beautiful lies.

I feel like my occipital lobe is being crushed:
by skull,
by skin,
by air...
or like my atlas has no axis,
or holding a globe with 1 or no hands…

However could anyone, even a Titan learn to balance the world with no hands after having two to help throughout their whole banishment...

Would he learn like a child learning a bike?
Would the lesson glide like water on a duck’s back?

I feel my muscles against my bones tight, skin against everything alike...

I’m questioning everything alike:
Why does it feel like my teeth are grinding?
How do I relax my jaw?
Or refrain from clenching my teeth too hard when I think?
How do I stop thinking?
Is it too late to go for a late-night run?
Is the crack of morning too tranquil and blue to open a bottle of lightning?

It is times like these I look in the mirror,
And I see his drug-lulled eyes,
Recognize the similar/familiar numbs,
A dystopic-idea of what love is.
I can see my father staring back at me.

-- Vivian Aila D., 17