Inspired by Respect
From this place of fantasy, of unreality and delusion, a mind- as alive as my own, has birthed itself into a tangible form. A man has come from an identity sheathed in facade and hidden by alias.
The name you know him by is not the name that his chocolate-skinned mother, in her leopard skin pants, called out the window to bring him in
the house and away from play, though the first letter is the same.
He is cryptic though you may think that you understand. His thoughts are carved sharp as knives, but not polished slickly. They are rougher and realer than smooth practiced lies.
The mute messenger is the font faced screen, but technology and anonymity are not manipulated to immortalize his alter ego, the unstoppable force.
He lives, writes, teaches with the awareness of the willing suspension of disbelief that a photoshoppable existence necessitates.
He is mortal and finite. Like a well oiled machine, he produces and creates with the constant knowledge that his batteries are running dry as days pass. He seeks only to avoid living in a vaccuum, only taking from the world he lives in. He defeats the flesh that
poisons him from the inside, rejects the mutiny of his crew. The ship is
burning in red orange flames, sinking into icy waters.
His history lives in comedians with unfortunate taste in eyewear and in photographs pressed between pages.
He knows that respect and cousins who once loved him will outlive him because beautiful things are remembered things.
As he burns and he drowns he bequeaths the ugly truths that time forgets.
The flames lick the darkness in his clear dark eyes as he imagines the day they find him washed up 105 miles west, dashed to bits on the reef.
He hopes after years have passed, and only slick skinned photographs remain that they remember. Smooth, black cousin arms around skinny youngsters shoulders want them to remember a day when family was close enough to touch and ego and fashion were not yet acquainted.
He treads every flower in his path, leaving his mark so they remember,
"Damn, we got our asses kicked that day"
And a pityless tragedy plays out, I'm dying.
Daddy's heavy fists taught him what it meant to live.
From this place of fantasy, of unreality and delusion, a mind- as alive as my own, has birthed itself into a tangible form. A man has come from an identity sheathed in facade and hidden by alias.
The name you know him by is not the name that his chocolate-skinned mother, in her leopard skin pants, called out the window to bring him in
the house and away from play, though the first letter is the same.
He is cryptic though you may think that you understand. His thoughts are carved sharp as knives, but not polished slickly. They are rougher and realer than smooth practiced lies.
The mute messenger is the font faced screen, but technology and anonymity are not manipulated to immortalize his alter ego, the unstoppable force.
He lives, writes, teaches with the awareness of the willing suspension of disbelief that a photoshoppable existence necessitates.
He is mortal and finite. Like a well oiled machine, he produces and creates with the constant knowledge that his batteries are running dry as days pass. He seeks only to avoid living in a vaccuum, only taking from the world he lives in. He defeats the flesh that
poisons him from the inside, rejects the mutiny of his crew. The ship is
burning in red orange flames, sinking into icy waters.
His history lives in comedians with unfortunate taste in eyewear and in photographs pressed between pages.
He knows that respect and cousins who once loved him will outlive him because beautiful things are remembered things.
As he burns and he drowns he bequeaths the ugly truths that time forgets.
The flames lick the darkness in his clear dark eyes as he imagines the day they find him washed up 105 miles west, dashed to bits on the reef.
He hopes after years have passed, and only slick skinned photographs remain that they remember. Smooth, black cousin arms around skinny youngsters shoulders want them to remember a day when family was close enough to touch and ego and fashion were not yet acquainted.
He treads every flower in his path, leaving his mark so they remember,
"Damn, we got our asses kicked that day"
And a pityless tragedy plays out, I'm dying.
Daddy's heavy fists taught him what it meant to live.
VIEW 25 of 39 COMMENTS
so, SG has sort of turned out well for you then?
i remember the first day you dropped by my journal. you were kinda iffy about the whole thing...
send me the info on that paypal account whateverthing.
-pb