I removed a benign melanoma I had, kicked it’s ass. I won but I’m wounded right now with an inch wide stab wound. I don’t like needles so I cauterized the wound instead. I felt like I was removing a bullet lodged in my back. Honestly, I just wanted to drive a sterilized pocket knife into my back. Watching everyone else stab each other in the back is worse than doing it to yourself. But I lived. I always fucking live. They will too. But my wound is flesh, theirs of metal.
I believe I’ve come to terms with my honesty. There are lots of things I want buried of course, but the fact I’m alive means I can joke about it. Maliciousness can come and go. But when they leave, a tiny bit of it stays with you. Dark is much simpler to be within than light is. Only the strong-willed persevere and find the light. It ain’t me, babe, but I couldn’t care less.
Everyone has a chance to win me over. And I try not to have opinions because they’re often jokes to lighten the morale. I try to have jokes instead. Good things happen, bad things happen; something always happens. It’s illogical to fret over the things that make us sweat. Once you start taking something seriously, something you can’t crack a joke about, that something matters. You’ll find yourself arguing and stressing over something you’ll find trivial later. So give us a joke. I won’t care if it’s a bad joke. I’ll know you’re just looking for a smile. Let everyone else scream, as if we need anymore of that noise, anyway.
The kettle of mortality and birth can be spilled by the slightest misstep or exaggeration. Are your bounds of flesh or of metal. A Ouija board spirit named Gomez said that to Marina and I. Finally, I’m no longer a ghost.
my love is tardy but bold
my vessel only ever punctual
almost a quarter of a century old
my heart beats as if love was still functional
I may be fickle in my dating and mating leisure
a fool whom watches clothes dry on the line
however I see naught tidbits of pleasure
in trying to make every woman mine
barter your hearts amongst each other
denounce thy loneliness aching within thine bone
my taunted fickle heart only beats for one lover forever
and patiently watches your dominoes topple the next down the row
Mine will know the days
(Whomever mine may be)
where two listless hearts could dance
to a single loving beat
Filed under poetry, rhetoric
I don’t read blogs often. I’m always afraid the way they arrange their words, their prose would desensitize my own. The ones I’ve read tell me things I don’t care to pay attention to anyway, really. I know that sounds mean, but I just don’t have an opinion about their day. I certainly don’t write into my blog the way I do because I think it’ll attract readers, it’s a place to let my thoughts go. So I’ve got the same view when looking at others. But I found one last night (while searching for something completely different), one that chronicled all the things I don’t normally care about. I read years into this person’s posts and I fell in love.
She sounded like the part of me that died long ago. (That’s bad writing, right? ha!) But she made me feel that all the unfortunate things that had happened to her, was undeserved. A person so sweet hit with all the bitters, yet she held, and I mean grasped on for dear life, this bright and positive outlook. I had no choice but to fall in love, and I fell deeper with every posting I read. I didn’t hold on for dear life like she did.
In a secular sense, she chose faith while I chose fear. She passed and I didn’t. You know why they have ribbons for colon cancer and liver cancer and other cancers except lung cancer? It’s because people believe they deserve it, that they did this to themselves. It’s not the cancer that kills a lung cancer patient, it’s the guilt that kills them. Guilt told me to let go and fall into the dark. (Yes I’ve become a better writer because of it, but it is expensive. That whole sadness and despair thing as inspiration is bullshit, don’t believe it. The art was already there, your ability to live tells you how you’ll translate it.)
I fell in love with her through her blog because it showed me how beautiful I could have been, had I have just held on a tiny bit longer. When you’re dead, you can only be loved, but you can’t return it. Maybe her words are the fingers reaching down to pull me up, and she’ll never know how happy her little fingers made me.
it sucks a ton
to dumb down a word
and there were more syllables
it is terrible
that it must be done
and there was less confusion
waiting for a bottle of wine
while I smoked a cigarette