Hazy
By: L.B. Carter
(January 16, 2006)
For so long now, we've denied the desires.
We've repressed fantasy and slayn carnality.
We've thrown sand on raging fires,
and we've hid our eyes from temptation so as not to see.
We were raised the same, you and I.
Shame was the name
of their most vicious lie.
And calling control "protection" was their game.
I remember the day I uncovered the raw honesty of this.
I remember the shock, in seeing behind the masks.
I sat down to write, of first times, and my first kiss.
But I was scolded for testing out new-found bliss.
I burned all my paper and threw out each pen.
I took a burning hot shower and scrubbed myself raw.
I drew blood from my wrists, and showered again.
I froze my emotions and prayed against thaw.
It was many years later that I saw my faux paus.
Sitting at the table, killing a pack of cigarettes.
Staring at your bare back in awe.
Letting go of the shame and the regrets.
I bought all kinds of paper and a bunch of black ink.
I wrote maddened, for days on end it seemed.
But you- you're gone now, not to return I think.
And the pain deep inside can't be redeemed.
Once again, I'm at a cross-roads here.
I question every feeling with too much analytical thought.
Is it normal, this lonely kind of fear?
And is it okay, to heartlessly end this drought?
I'd ask you, if you'd let me...
But I know you'd say feelings are useless,
and that my reasoning is hazy.
You'd say my feelings are thoroughly meaningless.
Copyright2006 L.B. Carter
By: L.B. Carter
(January 16, 2006)
For so long now, we've denied the desires.
We've repressed fantasy and slayn carnality.
We've thrown sand on raging fires,
and we've hid our eyes from temptation so as not to see.
We were raised the same, you and I.
Shame was the name
of their most vicious lie.
And calling control "protection" was their game.
I remember the day I uncovered the raw honesty of this.
I remember the shock, in seeing behind the masks.
I sat down to write, of first times, and my first kiss.
But I was scolded for testing out new-found bliss.
I burned all my paper and threw out each pen.
I took a burning hot shower and scrubbed myself raw.
I drew blood from my wrists, and showered again.
I froze my emotions and prayed against thaw.
It was many years later that I saw my faux paus.
Sitting at the table, killing a pack of cigarettes.
Staring at your bare back in awe.
Letting go of the shame and the regrets.
I bought all kinds of paper and a bunch of black ink.
I wrote maddened, for days on end it seemed.
But you- you're gone now, not to return I think.
And the pain deep inside can't be redeemed.
Once again, I'm at a cross-roads here.
I question every feeling with too much analytical thought.
Is it normal, this lonely kind of fear?
And is it okay, to heartlessly end this drought?
I'd ask you, if you'd let me...
But I know you'd say feelings are useless,
and that my reasoning is hazy.
You'd say my feelings are thoroughly meaningless.
Copyright2006 L.B. Carter