vanilla pops and banana skies

Friday, August 11, 2006

11:48 PM

pour être un poèt.

It's a feeling you get when you stumble across something so early in the morning that the moon is all sparky and alive, fresh from sleep. And then you realise that halfway across the world someone else's moon is rubbing her eyes hazily, as light reaches across the sky like pale cherry blossoms.

And there are eyes that are open, and draw you into the pits of their depth only to spit you out at the turn of a corner, because you're the wrong colour, or you can't ride a bike the way they do - one wheel up and the gear off to the left. It's your sensitivity of beauty (or lack of), and well,

You simply don't belong.

There are green eyes and blue eyes and brown eyes and broken eyes; and when you look up the mirrored peach-rimmed, almond-shaped eyes seem so distant, trivial and mocking,

As if they aren't your own.

You've been in someone else's eyes, just by reading someone else's poetry.

Who ever said poetry doesn't come in paragraphs?

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