bottom of the funnel
my hands leave a bad impression
that words cannot change
my nuckles are dry riverbeds
but they still make a good sandwich
sometimes i'm too tired to want to play
and i regret it in the morning
my best melody
is background noise
like the popping in my knees
when i try to be still
i shake
and vice versa
i have neither friends nor enemies
in the end
posted by truth @ 4:17 PM
10 Comments:
gee, thanks.
i'm talking about the final moment when we encounter your uncle wayne
and how we must walk that trail alone
i'll be editing that last line out later.
keep it in. I like vexating your head with my unreasonable filter.
are you a woman?
the reason I don't say much about your writing is because I don't want to fuel the decadence. you are twisted!
your stories about your history are wonderful, but your cosmic poetry is akin to walking past a growling rottweiler in the dark.
no fanky.
Gee, thanks.
Seriously, thanks for the compliment about my history stuff.
I don't set out to write decadent and twisted poetic ramblings. Sometimes they may appear more so than they really are.
What I try to do when I wax poetic is to try to write concisely but I don't want to be so obvious that dumb rednecks say "man, you gotta listen to this. it's better than poison" I guess in some ways I want people to understand but in other ways I don't.
Here's a little background so you know my intentions a little better:
I'm driving down the road and I happen to look at my hand on the steering wheel. I see how wrinkled and cracked and dry it is and it reminds me that I'm no longer 17 or even 27. It reminds me of when I used to look at my grandfather's hands and think "my hands will never look like that". That leads me to thinking about the times I've used these hands to harm others and how, even now, I still might punch an inanimate object to punish it for my own mistakes. I think about how I have used it to spank my son and how I might have handled things another way. How I try to explain with words to my son why I spanked him and how much I love him but how the damage is already done.
I think about how I should have played with him more the night before--how I should enjoy these fleeting moments with him at such a precious age-but am too tired after a long day of work to enjoy it for the miracle it is and instead sometimes I'm just going through the motions with him . He deserves better
I think about all the things I think and feel about my son but when I try to express it, it never does my feelings justice (my best melody is background noise).
Then I slip back into what it feels like to be growing old and not being able to truly share the best (or worst) parts of me with anyone and how it will all be lost and unexpressed in the end.
i guess it is kinda dark. and now that I've explained it, it's probably lost it's mystery.
I never said your words are bad, I just remember the night of the knives...
I keep thinking lotion will make it go away, but the slurping sound reminds me of my own mortality. I usually know, 90% of the time, just what you mean...
is there an uglier word than "I?"
Is there an uglier word than I?
sometimes why?
Me know that you get it the first time most of the time. But me also feel comfortable enough to let you see the stuff behind the stuff. Cause you do get it.
me rubs the lotion on its skin, me does this when me's told...
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