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In essence 9:14 p.m. 2005-12-05 At every family reunion i make up false histories and recreate childhoods that never happened, even though everyone else believes they did. But in my head... the palmists say there's something dark in the days before that I'm fighting to keep secret and every time they do i wonder if they're talking about you and just got the time wrong. Because, you know, well sometimes we feel like its someone else's fault we're ruined. But the fact is, i've broken dozens of guitar picks over the strings and your sweet memory, despite the shattered glass that taints your picture. Its over and done and that's nothing to cry about. So fuck repressed memory, i can't help that my mind wants to stay a clean slate. With all the things i see, my mind would get utterly and completely clogged if i held on to it all. Sometimes, when they tell us their stories of pain and suffering we can't help but laugh. We say, they're so pitiful and immature but... just listen and feel that hurt no matter the fucking eloquence of the words or the way its expressed, just listen because if you can't understand why they would bother writing that last poem about how they cut, then maybe there's something inside of you that's lost touch with your heart. Maybe its not that they don't deserve to be called a poet, maybe its that you don't deserve to listen. back & forth |