Single Ads and Stroker Purses
Written April 14, 1999
Your words got through.
Open to criticism.
Even if it was meant as a Death Blow.
A Haymaker to my ego.
An Un-Man Maker.
It only got my blood moving.
Through parts that had been resting.
It burns so hot.
These fires of change.
Hot enough to make steel bleed.
Hot enough for invisible hands to remold.
Can you see the transition?
From the stone to the spear.
A chameleon.
A Bionic Chameleon.
An Endosquid.
A Beastman.
Mother, why couldn't you just keep it together?
Long enough to keep me forged.
Weak and brittle, yes.
But together.
Smashing hurt so bad.
Picking up the pieces took years.
And I'm still using a broom.
Weak would be nice sometimes.
Relaxing.
Instead of this continuous cracking and reforging.
High, but left behind.
Surging ahead of what's considered normal.
Not better, just stronger under a different sun.
I hate how lonely this end of the Bell Curve really is.
Nothing but geeks, freaks and ... sigh ... Niques.
Meeks and cleats.
Chumps and Deadbeats.
Make it over the hump.
Join me around the campfire.
It's not fun roasting weenies alone.
Thought It Was All Over
Written June 1, 1999
Looking at this blank page.
What's to write?
Pulling my mind apart.
Looking for weak pieces and raw wounds.
Self-analysis.
You're all my psychiatrists.
Thank you for letting me in.
Letting me out.
Never thought I'd have lived the last few years.
A boy with a breathing problem became a man breathing life into an art he never thought he was capable of.
But one night in August, something broke inside me.
Something clicked just right, and words flowed.
The flow has continued.
Becoming something like Niagara.
Guiding my life.
Never again letting something slip through the cracks.
A shell of a mama's boy becoming a structure.
Something solid.
With a durable foundation.
Researched and molded by himself.
Taking power and pieces from all of you.
Burning them down, inspecting them, molding them to fit.
My shell has become me.
The hidden has become the wall.
The way in.
The way out.
No more grab-ass.
No more playing around.
I'm calling this my Coming Out party.
And you're all invited.
Come see what we've created together.
It's something with wild eyes and a fiercely-beating heart.
Trying to live life.
And succeeding.
Come see what we've built.
Written June 1, 1999
Looking at this blank page.
What's to write?
Pulling my mind apart.
Looking for weak pieces and raw wounds.
Self-analysis.
You're all my psychiatrists.
Thank you for letting me in.
Letting me out.
Never thought I'd have lived the last few years.
A boy with a breathing problem became a man breathing life into an art he never thought he was capable of.
But one night in August, something broke inside me.
Something clicked just right, and words flowed.
The flow has continued.
Becoming something like Niagara.
Guiding my life.
Never again letting something slip through the cracks.
A shell of a mama's boy becoming a structure.
Something solid.
With a durable foundation.
Researched and molded by himself.
Taking power and pieces from all of you.
Burning them down, inspecting them, molding them to fit.
My shell has become me.
The hidden has become the wall.
The way in.
The way out.
No more grab-ass.
No more playing around.
I'm calling this my Coming Out party.
And you're all invited.
Come see what we've created together.
It's something with wild eyes and a fiercely-beating heart.
Trying to live life.
And succeeding.
Come see what we've built.
All Hacked Up
Written May 27, 1999
I'm about to explode.
Evacuating.
My nose.
All over your clothes.
Like a fist, on my chest.
Not releasing, not giving me a moment's peace.
Until they rape and scrape.
And I don't like blood.
Dripping out of my face.
My nose.
I hate this place.
I hate this face.
All clogged up and nothing on TV.
Get me a corkscrew.
Get me a mop.
I don't care, I can't stand this anymore.
No drainage.
No peace.
Hack in and drag out.
Being in shape, but sounding like Darth.
Complete crap,
This poem.
Just a little rant.
Thank You.
Written May 27, 1999
I'm about to explode.
Evacuating.
My nose.
All over your clothes.
Like a fist, on my chest.
Not releasing, not giving me a moment's peace.
Until they rape and scrape.
And I don't like blood.
Dripping out of my face.
My nose.
I hate this place.
I hate this face.
All clogged up and nothing on TV.
Get me a corkscrew.
Get me a mop.
I don't care, I can't stand this anymore.
No drainage.
No peace.
Hack in and drag out.
Being in shape, but sounding like Darth.
Complete crap,
This poem.
Just a little rant.
Thank You.
Everything But the Boy
Written June 1, 1999
Thought it was so simple. Boy loves Girl.
I thought it was so easy.
Treat her right and things would come out ok.
Never knew about all the shades of gray.
Fighting the good fight.
Became a neverending battle.
Good guys wore gray hats,
But so did the bad ones.
We're wasting time.
Falling behind.
I thought being strong could fix it.
Strong hands by my sides.
Not able to grasp the problems.
Unable to cure the ill.
Was it always this damn hard to let go?
Not an artist.
Just someone real.
Real as rain.
Not quite as hard to catch.
Between your strong fingers.
Falling on the ground.
Falling down.
I'm walking away.
You're falling behind.
Written June 1, 1999
Thought it was so simple. Boy loves Girl.
I thought it was so easy.
Treat her right and things would come out ok.
Never knew about all the shades of gray.
Fighting the good fight.
Became a neverending battle.
Good guys wore gray hats,
But so did the bad ones.
We're wasting time.
Falling behind.
I thought being strong could fix it.
Strong hands by my sides.
Not able to grasp the problems.
Unable to cure the ill.
Was it always this damn hard to let go?
Not an artist.
Just someone real.
Real as rain.
Not quite as hard to catch.
Between your strong fingers.
Falling on the ground.
Falling down.
I'm walking away.
You're falling behind.
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What the fuck is this world
Running to you didn't Leave a message at least I Coulda' learned your voice one last time Daily minefield, this could Be my time, 'bout you? Would you hit me? Would you hit me? -Eddie Vedder |
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| Page last updated: April 25, 2003 |
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