A Journal of Sorts
"ghost calls to visit with my keys in his pocket kisses in my mouth with his eyes hanging out of his sockets my memories crumble under still resistance I was torn out like pages from the book of existance" ~ Jeff Buckley ~ |
like torn out pages from the book of existance I wondered about the point of resistance and asked myself what am I doing here (the answer was never more clear)... I am here to love you even if you don't want me to... I am here to help you get past your fear... I am here to nurture, that is the best thing I can do... I am here to bring you a little cheer... I am here to bring the far away near... what?... what?... what?... what do you mean?... the far away is coming closer than you think it's why you are running why you smoke and drink it's what you're afraid of what you're attracted to it is irresistable and it's coming for you the far away is coming breathing down your neck it's why you hear drumming why you cash your check it's what dreams are made of what you're needing most it is still invisible you think it's a ghost the far away is coming you feel it letting go and you keep holding on to what you think you know it's what time is made of what you can't explain it is unbelievable it will drive you insane the far away is coming all around you now and you just keep running because you don't know how to stop and smell the roses to experience yourself that's why you keep it all in books on your shelf a good book a school book a fairy tale reading without doing no wonder you fail contemplate your navel get off on being frail and comes the day you get get from far away far away far away don't know what to say don't know what to do you put it on the shelf meaningless to you the far away is coming meaningless to you the far away is coming meaningless to you the far away is coming meaningless to you we wouldn't want to disturb the fragile psyche of human consciousness, now would we?... stop and smell the roses?... how absurd... we're too worried over who owns the poverty they grow on and which prize they can win... what?... typos are profound sometimes... I think I meant... we're too worried over who owns the property they grow on and which prize they can win... but then, ethereal poverty is the result of the current human game I attempt to describe, so maybe the ghosts make more sense than I do... |
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