Sometimes, you're as fickle as away.
I'm hoping you're not at the bottom
of some cheap bottle, because I don't get drunk;
I get bastard, and have no bastards around me.
Sometimes the slow fat snow
falling at midnight
feels like home, but it isn't.
Sometimes I stand beside my shadow
with fists up to my face
reminding my bones of straight and curved angles
and that's pretty close, but there's no joy
in violence anymore.
We can't learn what we don't understand.
The future is as loud as a god,
and precious as soil.
We must be our own prophets.
What do you do when every thing
you acquaint with home has turned cold?
As cold as life, as trying.
As cold as hell and the world that owns you.
That's when you have to sit down and say:
"I am home. I don't wanna be home."
No comments:
Post a Comment