Once upon a time, I chased girls, who doesn't? I chased some girls for the wrong reasons. No question. It's hard to feel good about it, and surely I'm part of the reason why some women think men are scum. Sometimes it's confusing, but I think tidbits bubble out of the sub-conscious, like seeing the weather on a distant horizon.
Once I was chasing a particular girl, who I've since had a chance to apologize to unlike some who are long gone. I was working on a construction team, renovating apartments. I nearly effortlessly scribbled this on the floor, it seemed to come out so naturally I still remember it by heart.
Long summer nights seem short
When exiled with one so loved
Nothing to do but court
You're latest beautiful dove
Until she bows on hands and knees and worships you as the sky
You're lies have won one over again
Yet in guilt all you want is to die
I thought, well, that's pretty good, but do I really feel that way? Obviously I never showed her that. I tucked it away, thinking it was just randomly inspired. Read: Denial. Even though I don't have that poem written down anywhere, I've remembered it for ~8 years.
Sometimes it's still hard to know if I'm hungry or I'm just looking for blood. When a cat runs, a dog will chase it, you know? Who's to say what I'm keeping from myself.
I haven't been able to focus at work all week. I've done nearly nothing. There's only so much room for all this shit in my head, so when words began to form, fingers began to type. Filters off. I'm almost afraid who might read this, but thats the whole point of this blog. Feelings are a dangerous thing to have in this world, especially for a man, but I'm getting tired of living in a shell.
It's heavy, it's soft
Senses having trouble
I'm big, I'm small
Thoughts are racing double
Green grass I knew
No matter how I lie
Not brown, Not dead
You're new
Sea of green I can't deny
Blue sky it's true
No matter how I try
Not gray, Not red
You're you
It's nothing but Blue sky
Formless clouds you too
Shaping in my eye
Not this, Not that
Always new
All shapes formed do die
Its massive, dense and delicate
A lucent sheen cuts through
Tastes like love and smells like home
With room inside for two
The clouds can be our pillows
The sky can be our view
The grass can be our bed
In a dream we drew
Thursday, May 22, 2008
We will consult: The Fingers
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