Breathing the Story
by Prim-One & Tony Plocido
I long to tell stories
that will breathe when I cannot.
That dance
when my feet fail me.
That sing in notes
only known to those who have felt me love.
That will remember love
when the world has forgotten it.
That will form over the wounds
of the broken, like fresh flesh mending them.
That will tell us to be willing to try and
fail again at a moment's notice,
even if only for the hopes to bleed less and
heal sooner in the future.
Stories that will finally
sit down and play with that inner child.
The one who is very smart if not a bit overzealous.
That will shine, in the caverns of my mind,
so that I may see the moral and understand its intent
That will file down the edges of my political leanings.
There is a beauty in gray, even for the color blind.
There is a break of daylight
even in the darkest times.
When our daydreams are courting our nightmares
during hours we once spent in slumber
peacefully,
these stories will be our lullabies.
They will speak, clear and soft
to mute our screams of war,
laying us gently in their beds of irony.
There are stories
where the words are so beautiful
we forget about the existence of pictures.
And movies.
And light.
These stories are told by the ancients
through modern tongues.
They have the longing that makes us remember
that have not all we want.
The search is the universe!
It's infinite.
It's expanding.
There are stories in the stars
that we ignore every night of our lives,
but if we reached out
to touch these brittle pages above us,
would they rip in our hands?
Would we understand the language in which they were written?
I wish for my stories
to help translate these novels of hope.
To mediate for my family extended.
I long to tell stories that will breathe when I cannot.
That breathed before I could.
For conflict only comes from misunderstanding.
They suffocate the sound
until silence is the only tale left.
Unfortunately,
silence holds can hold comfort but
it can also substitute meaning for intent.
Silence splinters through our sentences unwelcome, but
will always wrap us in its arms
when we are alone,
when our words and our world,
no matter how colossal or minuscule,
have abandoned us.
I want my stories to embrace silence
as it has embraced us.
To kiss its cheek
as it has kissed ours.
To return the favors of forgiveness
it has shown us,
no matter how undeserving we were of its grace.
And as silence breathes forever, so will these stories.
Even when I cannot.
that will breathe when I cannot.
That dance
when my feet fail me.
That sing in notes
only known to those who have felt me love.
That will remember love
when the world has forgotten it.
That will form over the wounds
of the broken, like fresh flesh mending them.
That will tell us to be willing to try and
fail again at a moment's notice,
even if only for the hopes to bleed less and
heal sooner in the future.
Stories that will finally
sit down and play with that inner child.
The one who is very smart if not a bit overzealous.
That will shine, in the caverns of my mind,
so that I may see the moral and understand its intent
That will file down the edges of my political leanings.
There is a beauty in gray, even for the color blind.
There is a break of daylight
even in the darkest times.
When our daydreams are courting our nightmares
during hours we once spent in slumber
peacefully,
these stories will be our lullabies.
They will speak, clear and soft
to mute our screams of war,
laying us gently in their beds of irony.
There are stories
where the words are so beautiful
we forget about the existence of pictures.
And movies.
And light.
These stories are told by the ancients
through modern tongues.
They have the longing that makes us remember
that have not all we want.
The search is the universe!
It's infinite.
It's expanding.
There are stories in the stars
that we ignore every night of our lives,
but if we reached out
to touch these brittle pages above us,
would they rip in our hands?
Would we understand the language in which they were written?
I wish for my stories
to help translate these novels of hope.
To mediate for my family extended.
I long to tell stories that will breathe when I cannot.
That breathed before I could.
For conflict only comes from misunderstanding.
They suffocate the sound
until silence is the only tale left.
Unfortunately,
silence holds can hold comfort but
it can also substitute meaning for intent.
Silence splinters through our sentences unwelcome, but
will always wrap us in its arms
when we are alone,
when our words and our world,
no matter how colossal or minuscule,
have abandoned us.
I want my stories to embrace silence
as it has embraced us.
To kiss its cheek
as it has kissed ours.
To return the favors of forgiveness
it has shown us,
no matter how undeserving we were of its grace.
And as silence breathes forever, so will these stories.
Even when I cannot.
