You May Call me Chelsea.
I'm in the spectrum. I'm there. I'm present. It's just that you get so caught up- the boy with the blues, the girl with her name scratched into headboards and on album art - the Romeo and Juliet of the melancholy piece of the rainbow - that sometimes, it's damn hard to place me, remember me, give me room enough to ride up eighty stories to the very top, the very top where you and they will all run and jump and fly over the city, giving everyone something to talk about at the dinner table a few hours later.
Things can get under my skin so easily that there are days when I believe I'm more porous than you. I soak up what you say to me and let it slide down my cheeks when you leave me or squeeze me, and you just sit there, like concrete driveways covered in oil that used to be dripping.
I wonder if I can cultivate inspiration from stimulation. I'll sit in my car and gather a bundle of my favorite sentences or I'll make my way online and write words like "fear" and "waterfall" just to see if the imagery they gave me is still there, wrapped boxes under my bed. I think I'm too poetic for rock and roll but I don't think I have the tragic nerve that is wound around so many people today that causes them to filet themselves - no, I don't think I have that. In fact, I applaud when your suicide attempt was a breakthrough - and not a ground-breaking.
I have never been the person to stand six feet above a box and throw dirt downdowndown. In fact, there are too many dead people that are alive to me and I don't know if that's a disorder or a miracle, but I'd like to think, after having known so many bipolars that it can be both if it really has the motivation to be.
I am tired and poor and American. Can you tell me why the road to hell is paved with good intentions? I don't believe that anymore - I believe that somewhere someone awfully human became an obstacle too big to climb. We're all obese here and wouldn't you say, metaphorically speaking, that that sounds a lot like 270 million Atlases roaming around with burgers in one hand and Rand McNally in the other?
Some of us need a different map. Some of us have the map we need but no glasses to read. And some of us just need to look where we should have in the first place.
It's right there, in your hands.
Look.
I'm in the spectrum. I'm there. I'm present. It's just that you get so caught up- the boy with the blues, the girl with her name scratched into headboards and on album art - the Romeo and Juliet of the melancholy piece of the rainbow - that sometimes, it's damn hard to place me, remember me, give me room enough to ride up eighty stories to the very top, the very top where you and they will all run and jump and fly over the city, giving everyone something to talk about at the dinner table a few hours later.
Things can get under my skin so easily that there are days when I believe I'm more porous than you. I soak up what you say to me and let it slide down my cheeks when you leave me or squeeze me, and you just sit there, like concrete driveways covered in oil that used to be dripping.
I wonder if I can cultivate inspiration from stimulation. I'll sit in my car and gather a bundle of my favorite sentences or I'll make my way online and write words like "fear" and "waterfall" just to see if the imagery they gave me is still there, wrapped boxes under my bed. I think I'm too poetic for rock and roll but I don't think I have the tragic nerve that is wound around so many people today that causes them to filet themselves - no, I don't think I have that. In fact, I applaud when your suicide attempt was a breakthrough - and not a ground-breaking.
I have never been the person to stand six feet above a box and throw dirt downdowndown. In fact, there are too many dead people that are alive to me and I don't know if that's a disorder or a miracle, but I'd like to think, after having known so many bipolars that it can be both if it really has the motivation to be.
I am tired and poor and American. Can you tell me why the road to hell is paved with good intentions? I don't believe that anymore - I believe that somewhere someone awfully human became an obstacle too big to climb. We're all obese here and wouldn't you say, metaphorically speaking, that that sounds a lot like 270 million Atlases roaming around with burgers in one hand and Rand McNally in the other?
Some of us need a different map. Some of us have the map we need but no glasses to read. And some of us just need to look where we should have in the first place.
It's right there, in your hands.
Look.