Party Under the Bridge

If pain is felt like a windstorm, strength is shades of calm in between as the years melt off and slide, when it's understood how good it gets when we stop trying to make it good. I know what it is, how to find it. The Real... I let it in and out like breathing, palms facing the clouds. I'm a lover who cheats, a giver who wants it all, loud music, bruised knees... The darkest parts of love and war and hate, sunny skies and peace. I think of what god would be if he IS, though he needn't look for me to save me from fear, or resurrect me from death. I'll forget me. I'm not killing myself slowly, by worrying at the how, when and why. Why are we here? Maybe we've fooled ourselves- hammering apart that two-sided coin, as if it were possible. Maybe I've come undone flirting wildly with untamed edges, the crack in the sidewalk beneath the ladder, practicing witchcraft under the bridge they said was full of ghosts. But circles may appear to us like squares, and could we know? Pain and pleasure? Together, they mean something. Apart, there’d be no shadow. A face with no reflection in the mirror. We see by comparison in this wild wild place, full of a pats on the back, kicks to the face. But the world's not boring, I've seen what pulls harder than even the good, (all of them) where the wild things move in motions so fast and strange, all we can do is stare into the face of the Sun, eyes burning, and call it beautiful.