it is true, you know.
my experiments have come about in a moment of desperation, for my life has become an assessment - a balance sheet so to speak...this too shall pass.
a balance sheet - so to speak - weighing in the most rational (& awakened) state of mind to attempt to conquer my last chance left at what is known as life.
you've made me want to be a saint.
you've made me want to be a savior.
you've made me want to fuck a saint, or perhaps, my very own savior.
does this make sense? are you my angel??
have you conquered the misconceptions? will you let me borrow yr eyes?
perhaps just yr ears.
prove this wrong.
my theories, that is.
i have wanted & yearned for my very own bukowski to play savior, & now; i have found this bellyed out rotted soul & i am afraid my mind is not great enough to conquer it - has his conquered min
am i admitting defeat?
did i choose this path?
where are my goals?
where are my eyes?
my ears are still here.
my mind is mashed up - a composite of every1 i have ever met . . . will it heal? are there secret compartments? can i decipher the others ideas from my own? if i can do this than my writings will be complete...
i must narrate for them to persuade the savior role.
or perhaps, just go back to my balance sheet . . .
1 comment:
I relate to this all to well. Minus the whole saviour thing. I think I'm too doomed to have a saviour. And female Bukowskis are hard to come by.
Anyways, well put. Good post.
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