story teller

by July 31, 2009 0 comments

i lost track of the reasons
too long ago
to honestly list grievances.
i find myself where i am
and i don’t know how i got here.

i went out on a limb
and it snapped in pieces
and shattered my dreams.
now lies riddled in my past
and i leave it holy.

so many cigarettes smoked from
hotel room balconies
all alone.

spoons and blunts
like ghosts in my past.
does any of this really matter?
do yesterdays mean anything
more than time has passed?
and if what i think
i may have seen is true
will i be at peace when
the time comes
or will i long for a second chance
to finally and definitely make things right?

after all that has happened
should i think like this?

am i too old to think these thoughts?

searching for meaning is so cliché.

seeking peace of mind is so 2003.

now we pretend we have it
until we forget we don’t.

we live these lies
until they become reality
and the consequences take life
and strangle the possibilities
of what we could have been.
who have we become
and where did we leave
the us we once were?

if i could change the now
i don’t know if i would.
but i can’t so the question is futile.
a wasted thought process
used to kill time.
i’m hungry for innocents,
i’m fiending for the feeling
of having nothing to lose
and nothing to prove.

slick sleeved
and scared out of my mind
at that seattle holiday inn.
a broke airman
unsure of what lies around the bend.
i was so happy and sure of myself.
3 flights and 2 time zones later
here i am.

i smoke newports like
the filters hold answers
to these questions.
like the fiber glass
could give me peace.

as i age
and this cigarette
is smoked down to air,
mr. clock still spins.
if time is an illusion
then i’ll be damned
if that ain’t the best damn
magic trick i’ve ever seen.

in the auto-biography
that i call my 11 some odd years of writing,
there are huge holes in the story…
holes the size of trust…

trust that you will realize the truth.
and that truth is that
i can’t put into words
9/10th’s of my experiences

a camera’s film couldn’t contain
the scenes i’ve witnessed
and morgan freemen himself
couldn’t bring enough omnipotence
in his voice to narrate my yesterdays

i dream in flashes and feelings,
snapshots and extremes
i wear the snapshots
like cinderblock sneakers
as they drag me down
below the surface…

beyond the mask i wear,
past the “real me”
i played off to that pretty little thing
to make her think i was deep…

but not unstable…

and there i lie
wrapped in my insecurities like wool
using my hate for the little things
and love for everything as a pillow
in a mind better suited for a bulldozer…

ready to tear down
this pile of bricks i call life
it’s not prone to building,
wrecking balls can’t create…
they only know how to destroy

you can curl up with me there…
where scars mean more
then a healed wound
we can spoon
and whisper sweet depressing nothings to each other
about how nothing is gonna work out…

and if this ain’t rock bottom
i don’t know if i want to live long enough to see it

and countless don’t you hate it when’s
or don’t you hate people who’s
or don’t you hate…me

but i’ve learned long ago
how to hide these slippery slopes
how to think my way out
of that watery grave of self loathing

and if i know anything i know that
though you might think i’d be happier
getting it all off my chest.
that passing cancer
for the sole reason
of splitting the damage
will never end well.

you don’t want to hear my thoughts…
you want to hear your thoughts
spoken thru me
so i do that for you
its what i do…

i write about myself
and i tell you your story

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