blindingeyes is now LIFEMARROW

lifemarrow:

I want “hallelujah” to be the soundtrack of my life
beginning to end,
I want the empire state to write an autobiography
so we can adopt its needlepoint eyes,
never confuse Time’s Square with astroids again,
for God has a night light named the North Star that he
never forgets to plug in.

I spend my spare time collecting hitchhiker’s thumbs –
Who knows when California may call and say “I need you” like
I need electricity in my toes and a birds-eye in my grey matter so that
Each monochromatic shade would feel like pangea
before the sea split it into pieces
lacking the peace necessary to drop bombs
spewing music when they fall – harmony is not hard, I tell you,
it is our hearts that have grown hard
with all the blood we have hired others to shed.
If I had enough fingers I would knot each country together and say
“you’re in charge”
While I go on maternity leave for the re-birth of an old passion,
A scarlet flame experiencing withdrawal symptoms after the lights turned on.
When the walls came down,
revealed the waiting room for eternity,
I realized how many fathers I have most likely been born to in the past,
How you win some, you lose some and sometimes you never find them.
Other times they will not stop chasing you.

But you will not stop running in the direction of audacity
the way that mountains can grow and grow
but will never meet the grandeur of craters on the moon.
There is nothing holy about holes, y’know,
Everyone worthy of worth, of self-esteem
Like Mother Nature’s pride –
swelling tsunami –
as she watched the earth’s baby video for the first time.
If only I could shout your first words to the sky –
“I have hope for our generation” –
so we could all be born again
screaming in public
for no apparent reason
besides the fact that we are ALIVE.

Maybe if we all screamed every once in a while
We could have more room in our lungs for kind words,
Fewer extraneous words
snagging on the jagged edges of sharp thoughts;
nothing ever cuts clean;
do not underestimate your mighty sword;
do not stop singing that secret chord
at eighteen.

i always go back to this.