My Vicious Cycle of Fucktarded Fluff.

I wrote this poem a few month ago-ish. It's safe to post it now I suppose, because I hate the state of mind it describes. It, like all things, is worth me remembering, and examining: just hopefully not reliving. It will be easier someday. Right now I am sitting in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of stuff in a backpack. As suck, I have a lot to write about, a lot to think about... and a lot of the mental clutter has been tossed away, or at least left at home.

Goddammit. If I ever try the vicious cycle again... (and if you know me, you know what I mean): shoot me. Twice. Or just stab me. I will personally loan you the sword. Hell, you can even keep it when you are done. Just specify if you want the WWI bayonet, the Indian ornamental ones... the throwing knife...


Passion

I walk on by when I fear you most
I've heard that voice before
The constancy, the uncertainty
I've heard that voice.
It told me many things in whispers
through still cool mornings and scattered frames
until suddenly with stiff brightness
I listened and heard nothing,

But here we are again.
Where that voice is still sweet,
and only here and now I can't rebuke it
when I'm trying not to hear you.
For fuck's sake not to love you
Not to let this words pour out even to myself
For I know this place
And it knows my weakness, holding.
words and salt but never anything worthwhile

Never you, but always me
You always with the smiles and the small talk
And me with the fountain of memory
of everything except
the marvel and the mayhem
Of laughing and loving and chaos on the road
of the still peace that held me steady
there... that still and steady blaze
you with those eyes so loving...
for today.
But only for today.

Bearing through me now, You whisper
For now... despite what I shudder
And my words to the contrary
And I love you
And to love you when the sun comes.
I'll move my feet again.
and wind up following the rays the whole world round

Bearing through me now, the whisper
And I walk, but I'm not moving
You can run, but you have held me.
Because you are all I know of passion
and all I know of home.

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