I love shit like this. It makes you all work for my love.
If your eyes are passing over this right now, (even if we don't speak often) please post a comment with a COMPLETELY FICTIONAL memory of you and me. It can be anything you want - good or bad - BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE. When you're finished, post this little paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people DON'T ACTUALLY remember about you.
Do it!
i'm just a boy whose intentions are good,
oh, lord, please don't let me be misunderstood
there is no poetry here today.
don't know if that marks progress or a lack of it.
but the things that I mean aren't usually taken the right way.
so I have to remind people that I am only a man,
and not a great one.
I against I against I against I
there are things in my life that I am trying to achieve.
there are people in my life that I am trying to relate to.
there are mistakes in my past that I am finally leaving behind.
and, in the midst of all of this, there is day to day life.
it always comes down to a lack of understanding.
and then life gets in the way before we can explain.
I never mean
I'm never mean
and
I don't love
I don't love
but
I can't move if
I can't move
and
I won't live
I won't live
so if this changes how each of you and I are with one another,
I'm sorry for that. it's not forever,
but it's how it's got to be.
I got the devil in me,
sadness, it's a cloud
****************
if you can ever remember
the place where dying first appeared.
not death, which was a comic book
or a cat gone to hunt farm mice,
but dying. it wasn't a horror,
it wasn't a nightmare, or even
a mystery. it was eventual.
even to a little boy
at 11.
who knew as much about time as he did
about alters and living and about being god.
you used to eat it up
didn't you?
back then, when november was like the plague
and the possibilities still seemed,
in a word, endless.
there was no reason to doubt.
life was so eventual
that you swore you were middle aged
at 21.
the only alters you saw were old
enough that they couldn't touch you.
but now the sun sets lower.
the sunset, slower.
you don't pretend to be disinterested
anymore, you just are.
the cruelty at the center of you
has bled its way to all of your extremities,
making your touch like the glass between
a snowstorm and a warm house.
at 31
life is so eventual that the only
alters you touch are the ones that make you older.
11/16/2005
manic
are the wrong things important to me, or are the wrong things important to the rest of the world?
"As a solid rock cannot be shaken by the wind, so the spiritually mature person is unmoved by blame and praise."
- Gautama Buddha
