Where We Walk

i don’t want to be anyones lover.
i don’t even want to be my own.
i have the power of acceptance
which lets me know,
i am ment to be alone.
sad and true.
there doesn’t always need to be more.
it’s truly this simple if you choose to let
yourself drop your designated expectations.
if there’s something you want, reach for it
and remember, we have no control in our
world of chaos.
than, at least realize, at least you’ve tried.
we wont all make it here.

-XAA

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One Comment

  1. Posted April 16, 2008 at 10:56 AM by Anonymous | Permalink

    Curse of the Artist

    Sleepnessness:
    eyes wide and staring,
    thoughts sweeping through me
    like an all-engulfing plague of
    Darkness:
    Absence of light
    though the sun rises,
    promising a brighter future
    with the dawn of a new day.

    But promises forever lay
    unfulfilled like the corpses
    we let rotting
    beneath the earth,
    the same earth we wander
    searching for gods
    and demi-gods
    ANYwhere
    we think we’ll find them.

    But all we really have
    HERE,
    are glimpses and fragments,
    every passing moment
    becomes a memory,
    a story for the future.

    I laid my stories to rest
    long ago,
    leaving me stranded
    and branded by desolation,
    with only a faded photograph
    crinkled into a ball
    of a remembered
    forgotten dream.

    Heart sinking,
    head pounding,
    still I walk,
    convincing my cynical soul
    that this tunnel
    will eventually lead me
    SOMEwhere,
    although I have long feared
    destination was passed
    many moons ago,
    with given opportunities
    lost to ignorance.

    Waiting grows weary
    as heart falls deeper,
    still asking,
    “Why?”

    To be so adored
    by the many masses
    that want and need,
    yet to struggle
    (in solitude)
    as they all meet
    their others.

    Why this waking nightmare,
    each day that I might
    dare to dream,
    eyes wide open
    and burning,
    aching to be shut
    by the body that
    refuses to give way
    to their desperate pleas?

    Numbness once again
    descending,
    like a sheath,
    around my soul.

    Perhaps I fear sleep,
    for the promises it brings,
    promises
    (as of late)
    never realized
    as they once were.

    Perception,
    sight,
    vision!–
    What good are these
    tools of the soul
    when they fail
    to aide you
    In a day to day
    overwrought with
    barrenness and ironies
    the heart grows tired
    of keeping up with?

    Stone cold:
    the future that awaits me–
    to grow old and bitter,
    and in turn,
    even more deprived.

    It’s a vicious cycle,
    one that I thought I could stop–
    but the chosen
    cares not that I was
    naked and bleeding,
    and am now just
    a withered,
    shriveled carcass,
    walking through life
    with my head high,
    a smile bright,
    but hidden below the belt,
    a tail hidden between my legs.

    They cry to me:
    How much it hurts
    to be Them,
    They who know
    what love is
    and what it is
    to be loved,
    to the one who
    knows nothing
    of the sensation.

    Pity you?
    I pity that you
    take it all for granted,
    as I once did,
    I pity that you wallow
    in your own shameless
    misery,
    every time the moon turns,
    when I am left
    HERE
    to talk myself into
    sanity,
    every day that passes
    as salvation continues
    to elude me.

    But I tell you,
    “It will pass,”
    and I stand close
    to be sure that it does,
    knowing that–
    for me–
    it never will,
    but accepting it.

    Because if i don’t,
    then I am no better than
    You:
    the sheep that had
    everything easy
    and expected it
    to forever be so.

    Shudder to imagine
    a life filled with pain
    and angst
    and desolate foregrounds . . .
    Oh wait–
    that IS my life!
    Welcome to my realm.

    I fear,
    and not for the first time,
    that I am incapable of
    having it any other way,
    lacking in capacity
    to ever appreciate
    an easy or fulfilling life:
    The curse of the artist.

    *written when i was 20 or 21. no handsome young artist is ever actually “meant” to be alone, they just so often seem to end up choosing to be. and they all tell themselves they are fine with it. until the time comes again when they can no longer deny they are not fine with it.

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