who dat? contest.
(yo stee. i know
the doors keyboardist
first correct answer:
And we're stupid sometimes. Sometimes very stupid. We want one thing and something else at the same time and things illogical, things we don't actually want to be true, we want to be true. At least a little bit. We don't want to be bothered, but we want constant love and attention. We don't want to hurt but we sharpen our blades with the deliberateness of a fisherman baiting a hook. And what then do we do when we realize we have lost that love for good? Not all love, but that love. When perhaps it has moved elsewhere for good. Or even if it's not at that new place for good, it's certainly not with you anymore, for good. Forever. That there's less love than you thought you had. Do you need to fill that space? Or is there more there than you thought? And does it belittle what once was there that they have moved their love now to someone better than you? More than you? Someone powerful, perhaps, and successful? (Just as you predicted, you know. Just as.) Someone with keys to the city? Someone with city views and connections and valet tickets littering their dashboard? Someone with drive-on passes and children somewhere and twice as much life experience as you -- not to mention exponentially more money? Does that matter? Or does that hurt even less? Does the knowledge that you don't yet compete on that field make things more inevitable and out of your control? Is that better, then? Is it better to know now that it is gone for good? That someone in your weight class did not beat you? Is it not better to be taken down by a giant than by an equal? Does that not hurt less? Do we even know yet?
And we learn. And we go on. And we try to make sure we're taking the right steps to be good for ourselves. To be healthy and strong and lean and bad. And we know we're good. We all know we're good, in the end. "At the end of the day," as people like to say in this town. And that's what leads us forward -- the eventual re-unfolding of that central truth that we fucking rock. Then we can go forth. And that's when the real fun starts. I imagine.
...I have mentioned this one hundred times, but I'm a ridiculously big fan of the D Girl Diary, and she got fired this week. How sad. Plus a benign spine tumor. Poor made-up girl.
Don't feel like home. He's a little out. And all these words elope. It's nothing like your poem. Putting in, imputting in. Don't feel like Methadone. A scratching voice all alone. It's nothing like your baritone. It's nothing as it seems. The little that he needs it's home. The little that he sees, is nothing he conceives. It's home. One uninvited chromosome. A blanket like the ozone. It's nothing as it seems. All that he needs is home. The little that he frees, is nothing he believes. Saving up a sunny day. Something maybe two-tone. Anything of his own. A chip off the cornerstone. Who's kidding, rainy day. A one-way ticket headstone. Occupations overthrown. A whisper through a megaphone. It's nothing as it seems. The little that he needs. It's home. The little that he sees, is nothing he conceives. Is home And all that he frees. A little bittersweet. It's home. It's nothing as it seems. The little that you see. It's home... speaking of which. I have a one-way ticket to Knoxville to visit my half-sister, y'all. I bought it before. Before, y'all. Now, if I could just buy the land between me and Knoxville, remove it, and then we'll be together, my sister and I. And we love talking. We do. We do. She loves me. Just as I love...my money. Shhhhhhhh...
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