It ate my last entry, and that makes me unhappy.

It was some sort of rant about dependency, and how much we expect of others, or rely on them, or at least how much we talk about it.

I'm too distracted to rewrite it now.

I'm listening to Death Cab for Cutie. Tiny Vessels strikes a cord of some sort deep within me, opening my minds eye to events that have never occured in my short life.

Hand draws lines without meaning, words typed that are not my own.

So it is that things like the following are written.


I get up, and sweep the hair from my eyes
make the bed we shared, and straighten the curtains.
Morning sun, more honest than I, bleeds into the room.

Hand brushes down the sheets, and I find the wet spot by my pillow
where your tears fell,
in the darkness,
after the end.

When I heard you weeping I refused to believe my own self-sufficiency had failed for the once and final time.
The stuff of which love is made
is simple, complex, and overplayed.
sugar, lies, and loneliness.

There are moments spent where the end feels near
and others where the way is simple, and made clear
rythm for the sake of rythm,
the moment passes, despair overtakes me, in a moment my life has
ended and begun anew, but I am no more.

Rather, there is a new me, not improved,
rather now one more statistic too weak to be an anomaly.

One more bastard on the street corner,
begging for your emotional spare change.

"Spare a kind word or a smile for a poor man, lady?
I haven't felt loved in three days."

What reduces a man to the shadow of the self he once felt he had the potential to be?

"Yeah, you are beautiful, but you don't mean a thing to me."

My life fades like a candle.


Thursday, March 04, 2004


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