Sometimes I want to scream "fuck the world" and have everyone know it's a compliment to its beauty. And later as I walk down the wasteland of an alleyway I’ll see the fears and regrets people thought that they threw away, but really just put a mask on and sent running. Then the alley cat will rub against my leg and a paper will rush by, grazing my cheek. Normal people would keep walking, start running, but normality is like asking the sun to never set, it’s not possible, ‘cause life doesn’t work that way. So that little paper that that I really should ignore I pick up. It screams of the places it’s been, the old man’s coffee table, the little girls backpack, the sewer rats home, and the prostitutes last job. And you know what? I love every single one of those stories because those creatures and people are doing what they know best. That man has been drinking coffee since 1962, the year he started working a job that took more back breaking pain than giving birth; and the little girl will skip through her life for now, because she’s only three, and that’s what three year olds do; and the sewer rat doesn’t know his home disgusts humans, and honestly he probably doesn’t give a fuck. That last story is of the girl down the street, the prostitute, breaking the law to stay alive. And good for her for doing what she loves even if she doesn’t love who she do’s. And hopefully someday that slimy half-assed drug dealer who finds this paper next makes enough money to put his kids through school, ‘cause they never did anything wrong, just put one foot in front of the other to keep moving and living and breathing. Here’s to hoping that the thieves of the world get a good find and the police catch the right murderer. I’m raising my glass to those who died innocent with their heads held high and those who died guilty but found happiness. All this nonsense, it all boils down to my fury provoked speeches and thought filled rants of right and wrong, each word on the page, and every sentence I never could get my pen to write, are because of the moment I saw you through different eyes. I got scared and ran from the fear of my own mind and thought that by having a cause, a rally, a protest, or speaking out for other people’s problems I could cover up all this damn fucked up shit I feel. And I sure as hell hope to the genderless god that eyes aren’t windows to the soul and looks can’t kill, cause if they are you’ll die knowing I love you, and I’ll hate you forever because of it. Other people’s issues always seem better than your own even when you know that they’re not. I’m not ready for this one. I’ll never be ready for this one.
I think I’ll climb a tree and draw a picture of a bird falling into a deep abyss of fear and panic. Maybe the bird can find its’ way out. It has wings, I sure as hell don’t. I just have secrets and lies and bronze colored eyes, and a broken vocal cord.
