Monday 8/21/2006 12:52:00 AM

He used to try to cure me. With prescriptions made of glass. Why are you not happy? Am I the cause?

No.

He used to troubleshoot me. Program by program. I'd tell him I was not broken.

I'd tell him happiness is not my measure. Not my source.

He'd say I was faulty. In need of repair.

I just got tired of arguing.

Don't you know you're not happy either. Don't you know you're far more lost. All the things you use as a an anchor are not as strong as the pull of your heart.

All the things we tell ourselves when no one's there won't find us when we're lost.

He wanted to make me better. Like a child compulsively wants to connect those dots. Find a picture in that madness.

Sometimes there's no picture taken.

Just faces we can't identify. Skins that don't want to fit.

He only succeeded in making himself worse.

The act of caring hurts us all.

If you want to save someone then make it yourself.

Twelves steps to not knowing who I was.

To being her.

2 comments:
Catullus said...

Happiness, so fleeting and elusive like reaching out for a hummingbird. An illusionary, cautionary tale told to sleepy-eyed children and the dying.

Your words pull me deeper into my suicidal revelry. Well done.

alcoholic poet said...

thanx.

hope you don't sink too deep.



| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2016. All Rights Reserved.