Back like a shoulder blade

Oh Austin

This, sir, is a city of poetry,
and me, so preoccupied with being
someone else and missing the point,
almost done filling up my grave
with good deeds, I realize
I write too large and say too little,
don't love enough and sigh too often,
don't sing at all and hesitate too long-
But as a wise man once said, fuck it.
The plethora of discarded principles and
the mountain of mistakes can't be undone,
but that's not the point, right?
I'm trying to say beautiful things beautifully,
to make the mundane magnificent,
to prove I'm worth a damn-
pause just a moment too long
and dance awkwardly to perfect music,
as I cut this emo bullshit and the strings attached
and love everything because this,
sir, is a city of poetry.

And Go

Alright, the setting's night
and its cold and starry
and you're barely having a conversation through an almost dead chunk of plastic
and you hope to pump life into either or both
but you're tired and its increasingly too easy
to let nights slip away.
What do you do when your rent's late and your life's falling apart,
and your wallet's been stolen and you almost don't care?
The crowd is waiting and you've forgotten your lines,
and the light is glaring and the moment is tense-
inhale, exhale,
and go.

Stop it

Seriously, just stop it.
Enough with the eyelash morse-code
that my heart can't translate
and my breath goes ragged for
and my skin explodes for.
Quit it with the intent interest,
the satisfied smirks, the suggestive smiles.
My body can't take many more of these
endorphin induced euphorias.
For God's sake, just stop
being beautiful and laughing
like an angel.
Please, stop.
Please.