I always imagine
How I’ll see you tomorrow
And always you see
Nothing of my sorrow
Just what I show
Which you’ll never know
Isn’t six feet
Of my dwelling below
Too many self portraits deface a soul
And I’m but a painter with too few to paint
All I see is the same in all of my models
The same variations on different taints
I once was a painter who looked up at great heroes
And secretly hoped that one day I would be
A sculpter of clay such that conquers all battles
And somehow of that clay I could recreate me
But now all I see are the base imperfections
That block out my way to what could never be
I can paint over, but always corrections
Can never be true when truth is just me
I should be drowned in rivers
Streams should flow of tears
But currents barely quiver
And I’ve looked away for years.
I’m not intending to be shallow,
Continue reading “Intentions (explicit)” →
But shallow’s what I am;
So many broken links
In one long endless chain;
Everybody points, but nobody thinks
That they might share the blame.
They want to dub a “weakest”
So that it will be okay
And the chain at last will be the best
With one link thrown away.
But such chains aren’t made of people,
So easily dismissed:
They’re linked by actions and their ripples;
Made brittle by our emptiness.
There is another me
To whom it matters not what’s said;
Nor indeed what I have seen,
Though what I’ve never oft is in its head.
It longs for a grand tragedy;
For a story to make real.
And the cost, to it, means nothing;
All that matters is the feel.
I’m mourning what I’ve never mourned;
I’m losing what I’ve never had.
I’m drowning in a feeling
That I worry is a fad.
I’m surrendering to a sound
Like the combination of a breaking heart
And that ghost that hangs around,
Who likes to materialize and call it art.
I’m waiting for eternity;
Afraid that I don’t really mind,
Because I want to be the hero
But know I’m not the heroic kind.
I’m watching for a moment
To turn a blind eye;
Because maybe it’s heroic
To continue to cry.
Song of the day: Drowning, by Stabbing Westward.
What do they have that we do not?
Some gift, some gift that can’t be bought.
Some gift that cannot be for striven;
Some gift that can be naught but given.
But who gives it? Who decides
Which one stands and which one hides?
Who brings the lucky draw to bear
And decides that you belong elsewhere?
Is it God, or is it life?
Or is it simply human strife?
Is it chance and happenstance,
Or is there reason to this dance?
Is there a call, made up on high?
An answer, to the question “why?”
Is there a reason for it all,
Or is it just an endless fall?