“My land is bare of chattering folk;
the clouds are low along the ridges,
and sweet's the air with curly smoke
from all my burning bridges.”

Remember getting to the bottom of your soul, through the travel of glass after glass after glass of whiskey?
I identify with that with that comfort more than a clear recollection of my actions.
Age has brought me maturity, and maturity has brought me the heavy truth. The truth of what happens after we make our choices. Not to say that I regret. There really isn't much I regret, if at all.
But goddamnit, do affairs of the heart ever get any damn easier?
I don't know when or where or even how it started, but i've come to find that I'm really good at making things reckless and passionate and a complete mess. "love" is a dirty dirty word. And it digs into people to rip out their hopes and dreams and lives.
I am a siren, calling men to the sea... never to see their home.

I'll burn in hell someday.

("There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." — Ernest Hemingway)

I have these dreams, of those who are dead, or dead to me.
Things play out differently in my head...
I get to reach inside and pull out all the sharp parts, that tear up my insides when I'm alive.
Handing them over to their rightful owners.

I'm okay.
I'm okay, right?

I hold the pointing sliver spikey stars.
They glisten in the dreaming.
Each painful, beautiful, and now liberated from me.

I give them, in my dreams, to where they belong.

In the mouth of a man, who showed me how deep words can cut.

In the chest of a young boy, who broke my heart.

In the eyes of my mother, who always looked away.

The shining little shapes sinking into it's home.
In my dream, I find I am my own island.

I find my father.
And pull out the splinter.

I find my daughter.
I give her rubies.

I find myself...
In these houses that are RED and RED and RED...
but my room, she's BLUE.

A blue spark in a black place.

I hear a voice.
To call me back to the living.

sometimes growing up, it can get you down