I am I am I am you are; we are just the same.
I am tired and weary, and not so long in the tooth to be deservedly so. I am a eunuch, yet manage to rape myself daily, a very inconsiderate lover.
I am resentment sent home to take a nap; bitter, childish, likely to wet the bed.
I am scared stiff.
Fear rains icy with no umbrella to protect,
How will my socks stay dry?
I am a smile locked in a box and told he is inappropriate, even if it is his birthday.
I am my family, each and every one fighting it out in my head, my home, never enough money.
I am I am I am, you are.
He is, she is, we are all the same; I hope,
Otherwise we are all alone (or maybe it is just...).
I am alone.
I don’t ever want to die, at least not in this lifetime. Life plays little tricks on us called dreams and sometimes, aspirations. Someone fooled me into desires I could never see fulfilled. Not within the age any man could achieve, that is. From what I can see it would take an eternity to fix this place. I have more time than I know what to do with now and it is not enough. Maybe someday I’ll get moving. Maybe someday, the baby steps I take every once in a while will become leaps and bounds from moment to moment. Maybe someday I’ll be happy. Maybe someday, all this nonsense in my head, and heart (I think), will turn into something I can sell? Maybe someday I’ll feel loved. Maybe someday enough of this shit will change, that I will spend more time thinking of others and less of me. Maybe someday I’ll fit in.
- Or at least feel like I do. No matter what they say I don’t trust them, not one bit. The smiles are lies and their eyes hide wickedness. Not a one of them latches on and screams “Don’t ever let go or I’ll die!” No! -
Maybe someday could be tomorrow, it certainly isn’t today. The world will probably make its way without my influence. It is a shame though, that it has learned to play such tricks on us as it has. Showing us all we could want, all we could have, all we could be, if we would just get off our ass and go get it. Or, if we were somebody else. God, give me an eternity and I’m pretty sure I could not stop being me, but give me some time lord and maybe, just maybe….
And the Lord said, “I don’t deal in maybes.”
Killing a cupid is a hard thing to do.
He struck me first and it was my right to fight,
To fight back in defense of his soft, warm blanket of oppression.
Who is he, it (she?), to make these choices for me?
An attack is an attack, good intentions (road to hell) or no.
His arrow was uninvited, yet
Loftiness became a mental state for old boy as much as a physical disposition,
And when you elevate yourself it is opportunity to fall is it not?
And so he found me holding his toe,
Like a fly on a string,
A new chosen destiny for he who has so callously fucked with me.
His valor will no doubt be chirped about,
Championing his mission to the bitter end.
But he wasn’t much of a fighter,
Poisoned arrows and all.
A simple branch changed the direction of his wind and,
He spiraled to the ground like a lover lost in excess.
Now to brood over those smashed feet,
Blue black and red, the color of this murderous heart.
His arms and hands have lost distinction,
Now puddles of flesh slowly trickling away from his body.
His face holds discontent like it is candy,
A smile on that sweet cherub head.
Forever was this his expression in life, and forever in death,
Pinned to him, tail on a donkey, by the arrow through his cheeks.
Remorse creeps through the back door as I survey this selfish act.
Who have I denied his gifts with my outburst of fear and failure?
Yet who have I saved?
Has he been a punisher rather than a savior for others as he has me?
As filthy as the sight at my feet is,
It pales in comparison to the damage in my breast.
It is a hard thing to kill a cupid,
A hard thing.
Kill the cupid!
He might have been good to you.
Kill the cupid.
Killing a cupid is a hard thing to do.
I want you to know that I am not crazy. I'm broken, I admit. I am confused, that is true, but I am not crazy. This world has presented me with enough tangible realities to cling to that I know I am functional. I can intermingle. I can play the game. I'm just not sure how much talent I have for it, and I don't understand how one maintains focus with so many things to think about. So many variables to consider. How will I get the money?
I was raised soft, often lonely for no reason, and kind. My temper was a birthright, but my compassion came from lesson. I wanted everyone to get along and love one another. I wanted to play all day, but how would I get the money?
I loved Jesus and God. I'm sure I still do, though my vision isn't what it used to be. My childish clarity was concise, and beautiful, and I wanted to teach it to others. But I wondered too much, then wandered too much, then found myself lost. Then one morning I woke up and all I could wonder was how I would get all the money.
I don't want to feel so desperate, so angry, so confused, so slighted by life or God or my own lack of whatever it takes to have a happier, more successful life. But you can't control the way you feel. All you can control is the way you respond, the way you react to all the bullshit emotions you've been blessed with. And still, how will I get the money?
So here I sit, sane as the button on your shirt. Only not as thoughtless, no sir. So much to think about. So much to feel. So much mud to swim through for all these things I want: Peace, love, happiness. But the thing I just can't figure is, how I will get all the money.
I don’t want to swim through life with my heart locked in a shark’s cage, but here it is.
I don’t want to be filled with contempt, but there is nothing else filling the cup, so there it is.
No one wants to be exactly what they are, at least according to them, but there they are.
No one, maybe some, but not me, wants to be in love and all alone so ha ha ha here we are.
Somedays, most days, every day, I’ve some place to go, some thing to do, and a little piece of nothing to say.
Some weeks, most weeks, every week, I’ve something to hide, no thing worth speaking, and another on the way.
Some month, one month, this month, I’m gonna do something, find someone, say something you’ll hear.
Some year, one year, this year, we’ll meet and laugh, you’ll lie and leave, and I’ll hold dear.
The last thing the world needs is another me. Another voice of reason. Another boy. Another white person. Another weak link in the chain of Christianity. Another unfocused artist. Heaven forbid another moderately talented wanna-be artist. The last thing this world needs is another me. Another person futilely resisting their place within mediocrity. Another me is already out there, expressing himself more eloquently than I possibly could. Turning my base emotions that burn inside, making me want to create, into something tangible and beautiful and expressive on multiple levels I could never achieve or understand. Another me is saying what I want to say, loving how I want to love, living his life with a fearlessness I could only dream of. He is taking the things I’ve been given and applying them towards greatness. Another me is the athlete I never trained to be, and the leader I’m afraid to be. Another me is the person I’m destined to be, but without the patience to wait on destiny. There are millions of mes out there before me, doing a better job at being who I want me to be then I ever could. The last thing this world needs is another me. But, here I am anyways.
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