You are scarred
Flawed and debauched.
But beyond that you are mine.
You are tainted
entangled and wound
but beyond that everything is straight
We will dance happy dances
sing sad songs
drink cold wine
and make burning love.
And in the morning…
In the morning…
Where is she?
I am lost
limp and lacerated.
But beyond that I feel nothing.
I am scruffy,
romantic and horny.
But beyond that I am just a boy with a pen.
My pen will draw you in
bind you with poetics
pour out my sold
and hold tight your fantasies.
And at the end of the page…
At the end of the page…
She’s stopped reading.
My words: mute.
My actions; dumb.
Poor sappy me.
And if I fall apart?
If I fall apart…
She’ll have left without putting me back together.
It is hard to write from a desk.
Hard to write when you have lost the ones
who were once on your mind
Hard to write when you feel as though
you have written all you could.
It is so hard to write,
when everything feels so wrong.
It is hard to write happily through tears.
Hard to be honest about what you are crying over.
It is hard to say “I Love You.”
It is hard to write letters
with no one to address them to.
It is hard to write from a desk,
when you wish to write so much more.
Hard to write an emotion
you feel does not exist.
when all emotions feel that way.
It is hard to write of a life worth living
When you don’t know what one is.
It is hard to write of anxiety
when your fingers are cramped with…
It is hard to write at all
when you have nothing to write
I need to stop being so cynical. That is all I will say about my last post.
I have had no new sentiments to convey for quite some time, so I will try my best to be myself and jot down a couple of paragraphs elaborating on life’s events. In other words, I’ve been stressed, and shit has happened, though no more than at any other point.
I am the drummer for Vincent Falcone. We play grunge. That’s it. I have a headache from too much red bull right now because that is what fuels our practices. It may as well have been cocaine. As you may have read, I believe in the beauty of the loud garrulous tones of music, but I enjoy the soft and supple as well, though it is hard to find a group of male teenagers who will say the same. In any case, they have delusions of starting a grunge revolution and taking the world by storm. Here is the facts: we are a garage band. We beat the hell out of our instruments and talk about making it big. And we may get big, but only in a dietary sense because I think the world lost its taste for grunge with the cocking of a new shotgun, and the explosion of an old skull.
I am torn between a woman who doesn’t care for me, and a woman I shouldn’t care for. As a result, I am eating more, writing less, and taking up useless hobbies. Don’t worry, I still brush my teeth. One side of me has no idea what I have to offer, the other side doesn’t get what women don’t see. And in the middle of me, slightly south of the belt, I really don’t care just so long as I get a few cheap thrills. Being a Jehovah’s Witness, I must wait until the right time for those thrills, and after matrimony and honeymoon, they will no longer be so cheap.
I am not doing so well in school, and I think that the novel I am working on is shit. I’m thinking of taking a trip around the world so that I might have a story to write. Perhaps I will find a woman juggling on a cruise ship. Perhaps I will be shot in the head and left to bob in a swimming pool over night. At least I won’t be at home. I will party and spend and splurge and scrimp and save and dive and dig and fight (maybe fuck) but there is no guarantee it will clear my head. This is the definition of wander-lust.
Should I give her a call and go down a road oh so traveled? That is my current thought. I could really use some Advil.
“It is not enough to play music loud, you must rock out to it.” This, a dear friend said to me on a day when any other words would have bounced around in my skull like a live round of ammunition. So I turned up my music, felt the rhythm, and let my blues go. The words are beautiful, and they matter to me, but not as much as the rhythm. The soul of Bob Dylan’s latest album has become my therapy. The trap of scales and Arpeggio’s has crafted my cage, and I would stay barred my entire life should it mean feeling the healing I am experiencing right now. Hungry, thirsty, tired, sad, suicidal, it doesn’t matter. Play it loud and rock out. Play it loud…and rock out. Truer words were never spoken, nor indeed from truer lips. I am a thousand times happier than I could ever say, at least, some place within me. and that certain place is incumbent with multiple, very welcome occupants. I say it one more time:
PLAY IT LOUD!!! AND ROCK OUT.