RED Circus

Sitting here under a dark tent,

Whistling a little tune.

Sitting here, in this dark little tent,

Thinking, dreaming of you.

My Papi told me that I was born into the circus life,

But he got to choose.

I’m sitting here, in this three ring circus

Of a life,

Thinking of my doom.

The fire breather we hired is so mysterious,

During the day he wears a mask,

But at night his eyes look at the moon,

I wish I could get that mystery unlocked,

Alas, his persona is a secret I cannot grasp.

I was meant to be a performer, yes, a good one too.

They all laugh, those kids and their moms,

At my antics—-it fills me with glee.

But when I make him smile,

I no longer have to filter all that red—- I can finally see.

Sitting here under this tent, I can’t find my purpose,

But with him, I appreciate the honesty

We both have with each other,

That subtle back and forth,

The way he knocks me out without throwing a punch,(with those expressive eyes)

The way I feel when I dream of holding his fire close.

But, I can’t say out loud the things

I really want to do, the way his presence gives me hope,

The way I really feel when I pick a fight.

I really want to hold back,

But I don’t:

Especially for the flying cannonball tricks,

The fireworks & explosives and the

Red I always see,

Sitting here in this dark little tent,

I almost can (hear, smell, taste, feel)picture you here,

Kissing(killing) me.

I’m just under this dark umbrella of mystic energy,

The nucleus of this very verse,

Almost tantamount to carbon, which makes up me and this dark little tent and your deep fire too,

But as always, like my act,

I fall flat(on my face)

When I try to speak with determination,

My mind deteriorates

My voice is severed from my body,

And I hear it far away,

Whispering and screaming

Crying and seething,

Why won’t this infinite loop

Of madness end?

I keep dying but I can’t seem to find a place to stay,

My tormented shadow of a soul keeps going

Back into that looping mortal coil,

And I ascend, flail and derail

Not in your arms,

Not in your arms.

That’s why there’s all these jokes about

Comedy having a tragic backbone,

As William Shakespeare said, Tragedy is a comedy misunderstood

And I agree.

I keep sitting under this damp, dark tent

Whistling a

Red little tune,

Thinking about

You.

I wish I could murder these thoughts,

This reigning agony running in my veins,

But every time I try to forget you,

My life turns into an endless slideshow of screens, that showcase my old

Traumas, dreams and wants

A blinking, deep blood red nightmare of

My own phantasmagoric fantasies and frantic, childlike

Upheaval.

Then, I let go.

I couldn’t hold it back anymore,

And you looked worried

But as I fell into your arms,

You locked me into your chest, and I felt your fiery heart. It did not burn.

This daring look we shared felt like the first, second, millionth look between us(and the last one I’ll ever show, since you are the only one I want to see it),

A combined dream we spun, across the space of this frigid circus tent,

So luminous, so dreamy, so beautiful you were.

And I knew right then it was you, yes you,

Who will hold my heart, (and I want to fall back asleep but you keep me awake)

Our circus was red, like your heart,

Like our new story, and now, I finally got to choose.

Fun, I mean… Fin.