Saturday 8/26/2006 12:34:00 AM

The silence spoke in words too big. The best thing about life are the detractors. Hate makes me believe love is real. As real as the way skin puckers by the temperature of the room. Rising to greet the cold. Shrinking from the heat.

Mimicking the mind in its reactions.

That somehow this meat is a metaphor for its mind. Some stolen puppet languishing on the ends of rotting strings.

That these toothpicks do more than simply prop up my pelt. Both fearing life and worshipping it as gods would speculate from their throne. About the things that could make us real. And the seldom things that actually do.

Should you ever find yourself alive again wake me up. Terrify me with hope.

That every death brings us closer.

We're never too old to hate ourselves. Or the things that failed us.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2024. All Rights Reserved.