Wednesday, October 12, 2005
I'm trying to stay sane in an insane world. Trying to find words that speak truth, conveys pain, and highlights my ugliness. I am Bukowski in his drunken poetry; I am Baldwin, in his fiery rage; I am the savage beast that will not be tamed by music alone; the fallen angel trying to fight my way back into heaven; the poet whose pen is filled with blood. My faith is doubt; every breath I take is on loan and I'm wondering when my balance is due. Suicide...is a last resort and all the other inns are booked up. I'm not crazy--just fucked up and not fucked enough. Am trying to keep the demons at bay, but sometimes they fuel my fire, feed my soul. It matters not who sees this--what difference would it make? No one pays attention to writers anyway. No one cares for the outsider, the monster, the ones who are not like them. But I am you--the secrets you try to keep; the words that you will not say; the skeletons in your closet. You can't hide from the truth--maybe you too are trying to survive, stay sane, live life, breathe freely, trying to get just a touch of grace. But I can't help you unless you choose to acknowledge me or die trying. Open your eyes, open your ears, read between the lines, dare to feel something for this bohemian and his kind--who knows, like they say, the truth just might set you free. But then again, this may be much ado about nothing. You decide.