Guillaume Morissette - Poems are for no one, very long poems are for themselves lyrics

I. the awkward and irrational logic behind missing someone would be hard to explain to a small child except maybe if the small child knows that feeling sad is okay and you tell the small child that missing someone is an illness of the brain. my bed is a mess, it misses you. it's been having nightmares about being suffocated to d**h with a red pillow. to calm the bed down I have read the bed a bedtime story of printed-out e-zine articles on ways to overcome a heartbreak. intimacy is addictive. staring at the back of your head at night is a small personal interaction that I miss but didn't expect to. sometimes in my sleep I want to bump into you or else maybe roll over you but can't. I should have rolled over you very hard in my sleep, to crush you into the bed and prevent you from leaving. to invest a lot of energy into thinking about you constantly is to considerably hate myself. I miss you and I miss you naked. those are two completely separate ways of missing you. the bed is being a jerk to me. in the morning I wake up with bed hair ten percent worse than usual. the bed is accusing me I think of not missing you genuinely and just being a weak person unable to cope with the large, unfathomable feeling of suddenly having no one to care about. as usual my feelings will adopt the physical shape of an upside-down heart in the open office document, or at least this is what the shape looks like to me. does it look different to you; yes the physical shape of my feelings is a rorschach test. what is right with me; very little. I need a moment please. II. lately I have been missing you in the form of angel-shaped drool stains on my pillow. a printed-out e-zine article informed me that occupying the mind is the best way to get over missing someone, so yesterday I worked almost all day on school stuff and lit stuff and emails. most days I put more effort into emails than into school stuff. at the end of the day I was tired and wanted to not think anymore and to not stare at anything anymore, just maybe close my eyes and make out with someone but there was no one to make out with, is this tragic or what. a refreshing way to overcome my pride would be to send you an email whose subject line reads, ‘I miss you' and whose body reads, ‘see subject line.' the bed looks depressed. its red sheets remind it of your red winter coat and also of the red cover of that book you gave me. the bed misses our bed talk. at night, I can hear it make dolphin sounds in an attempt to reach out and communicate. the noises bounce off the walls and return to the bed, which makes the bed feel isolated and discouraged. my serotonin level is often at its highest when no one is around. to sabotage myself is to prevent others from doing so. what is the meaning of missing you, a subject matter to tackle in a future poem maybe, one whose best lines aren't even the funniest. in my sleep, I rolled over away from the bed and fell on the floor. I felt calm because I couldn't remember anything in particular involving you and the floor. one way to power through this self-imposed pa**ive-affective mood would be to do push-ups by the bed until I am bulked up and muscular, an entirely different person capable of rolling over in the bed multiple times, creating heat and making the bed as warm as when you were in it. why does the empty bed keep happening to me, I probably deserve it. I need a moment please. III. I have been more of a facebook profile than a person lately. yesterday the status updates were cascading down the page like a zen waterfall so I sat still and listened. what does the waterfall say. the subtext is unknown and possibly nothing. the bed is in a coma now. I said your name to the bed and it shivered so I put an additional blanket on the bed. missing you is one problem, how to conclude this poem is another. I don't think ahead, I think through. to write this poem was mostly a ploy to k** time until our situation evolved. but nothing happened. I feel the same now as I felt on the very first line of this poem, except maybe for the disconnect between what I do and what I want, which has somehow accentuated itself. do you remember when the bed was so happy to see you that it jumped on itself; that never happened, I lied. I just wanted to leave you with a pleasant image of the bed. throughout this very long process of mildly deranged soul-searching I have determined that lovesickness is a discouraging crisis for which tangible solutions include a large black tea and stepping away from the keyboard. but missing you is also a hiddenness of the mind, the devoted, uncertain sensation that perhaps there will never be certitudes, just more feasible or less feasible longings and desires. which reminds me, let me state how hot you are: very. can I start the poem over, I am not sure you can do that. I need a moment please.