ayawnworthyelling

Epithet, The Epithet

Applause, applause to the elegance 
Of obsessing over its elements. 

Like a cold knife to butter— 
Rise like body of water 
When you’re sipping your rum. 
Sometimes I’m crazy in love 
With the thing you’ll become. 

If you think you’re unhealthy 
It’s always hit and miss 
Cause if you don’t think of it 
Then it doesn’t exist. 

But you don’t think like that, 
‘Cause you’re the wool and the linen 
Sunday apples and jeans 
The salty sand on the boardwalk 
The terracotta and greens 

Which stretches to Palm Desert 
Over a rovering clover 
Sob’ring my fields of thoughts 
If you think you’ve forgotten 
Then you already forgot. 

Because my strings do tend to ravel and unwind, 
I made a pact to do good and be kind. 
But now I find my sacred rest in what I couldn’t find inside my mind. 

Now it’s time the end to face the means, 
For things are most forgotten in the in-between. 
The gothic wave of tiredness eloped a movement in the crashing scene. 


Epithet, the epithet— 
You feel the heat in the summer, 
And the love in the fall, 
And the lonely in winter, 
And the spring will recall 

All the feelings you have felt. 
It bled into your paintings 
In the passing of years 
An apparition of color 
A blind Orion of tears. 

Which always stains my clothes. 
It turns into my laundry 
Which my mother still cleans 
Though she don’t get to see 
My tired face for weeks. 

You can’t undermine its call 
When it speeds to your doorstep 
And keeps spitting half-truths 
All dressed up in a bowtie 
With black slacks and black suits. 

It’s a mystery to us all; 
Like voodoo dolls in a cornfield. 
Like my sister’s dad. 
Like my brother in prison. 
Like my new mother sad. 

Figure it out on your own. 
From what I’ve learned from astronomy, 
You’ll get to know the things you’ll never get to see. 

It’s quiet now across the blasphemic sky. 
But we lay awake in sparks that shoot too high. 
The holy flame across my face did sear my lips and blind me in both eyes. 

I’m searching for some hint, or clue, or sign 
That my whole life will leave something worthwhile behind. 
But when my body leaves this place, I’ll still remain beside these words of 
mine. 

Watch me run! 
C’mon! C’mon! C’mon! 

They told me when I was a boy 
To write every thing Mangum said down. 
I was their scribe, 
I was indescribable.

I’ve seen you standing overshadowed, overcast it’s raining in your head. 
I know it’s hard to think through the pitter and patter clouding what you’re after when you seek it. 

Get out, go home to where your needed, where your needed—or is it raining in your heart? 
I know it’s hard to think when you’re starting to question the things you thought you’ve already answered. 

But me, who am I to give advice? 
Cause’ I feel the same. 
Is it such a crime that I don’t know what I’m doing with my own time,that I don’t know what I’m doing with my life? 

I’ve seen the hands they keep on turning but the fact remains that I’m still sitting here. 
And now, it’s dark and I can feel it slowly creeping in—is it best that I should try to go to sleep now? 

But you, who are you to give advice? 
Cause we feel the same. 
Is it such a crime that we don’t know what we’re doing with our own time, that we don’t know what we’re doing with our lives?