and goddamn this text I'm typing out just looks so goddamned classy sitting here on this white background. it looks tasteful. it looks like it can sweep you off your feet and teach you to dance. and maybe it's substance isn't the same and maybe it doesn't want to be classy or tasteful, but I'll be damned if it doesn't want to run dance classes in the Catskills.
and books or pages or zeroes and ones aren't enough to keep this in because every GOOD book is more than a book, the words on the page explode out and scream in your head making you sing with every pore in your body ecstasy isn't the aim but somehow the bullet always passes through there on the way to hit somewhere a bit more fragile and damaging. a good work of art is a good workout. it tears you apart in a million tiny little ways and leaves you there, sore and cursing, to heal yourself like you have to. so i never got why people damn pain to the worst of hells, or why people revel in it, pain is pain is pain. it's there, darling, whether any damned one of you wants it or not. and pain is where you grow and pain is where you die and pain is pain.
and somehow pain isn't enough to build a home out of. discomfort does not lead to comfort, no matter how familiar it gets, and i don't want to write about this. pain isn't life, but life is married to pain and this is where it gets confusing.
we all want to live within the boundaries of happiness. some of us build fences and walls on the border, man it with memories of what happens when you cross it, we shoot ourselves in our foot and put it in our mouth. and i'm not saying that i don't like my flat in this metropolis, but vacations are nice too. day trips to the cliffs of despair and all that. and i feel bad saying that, because i don't seek out these trips, but i get kidnapped some nights by regrets i try to deny, and i'm dumped at the side of the road far from home, but today the rain drizzled down insubstantial, not even enough to be fun, but as people passed frowning like all hell lived between their lips, i couldn't help but smile because, man, I can't help it. and also, admittedly, because pop-cultured poetry swam in my head.
rain drops keep falling on my head, but that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red. crying's not for me, 'cause i'm never going to stop the rain by complainin'.yeah just like that. and i wish i could think of a better quote for it all but there it is. aye, there it is.
1 comments:
Well. Damn. You do it again. It is always so, YOU, you know? SO poetic, so FULL, so true to every word that either of our lips could form. Perfect in its self proclaimed boundaries.
This is one of the best poems that you have ever written. The flow is overflowing, indefinitely. Almost every sentence begins with "and" because there is not enough room to stop.
Don't stop, keep going. Damn your words ring sweet and true like a revolution that I would die for. This war is for me, I say. What war? That's just it. WHAT WAR? I don't see one. I don't believe in it, but FUCk, I am going to fight anyhow because there is a war within me. -I might be indirectly quoting Rage against the machine.
Anywho, good to be reminded of how good at words you are.
Please keep postin' 'till the most most mostin' glorious mornin'
and most of, most of, most of all,
paper boats and waterfalls.
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