prettyb0y

I guess I should write something for my birthday. Birthdays aren't a big thing for my family, unless you're a child.

Last night, I was looking at a story I wrote a long time ago. I wrote in 1988. It sucks. There was some prose recited in the story. It sucks. At the time, I probably thought of it as a poem, but this bitch has the meter of a hand-me-down pacemaker. I do, however, like the story of it.

A Sculptor's True Masterpiece

Every night before he slept,
He'd drop on his knees and pray,
That he'd have the skill to make THE statue,
When the sun rose on the next day,
He'd pray to God to put him down,
In the chronicles of history,
To make his mark in this world,
A mere chance and all would see,
He'd sweat and cry and bleed,
Upon his works through day and night,
Ever searching, ever reaching,
Ever molding to make it right,
He'd shape and carve and sculpt,
Upon his works from dusk till dawn,
But no matter how small the detail,
There was always something wrong,
Years of sleepless madness passed,
The seasons trickling away his might,
Then one dawn after a night of murk,
His final work gazed morning light,
Its texture was that of rose petals,
And it glistened like spring rain,
And the gems about it gave off a light,
That tasted like candy canes,
He stood there for countless hours,
His eyes filling over with salty tears,
Then he released his rage of fury,
With his sculpting hammer he had used for years,
The wrath that had built up all that time,
Was liberated with blow after blow
And when all that was left was sand and ruble,
His face began to glow,
For he did not pray to mark this world,
By making a sculpture just to appease,
But for destroying God's creation,
Which is the True Masterpiece?

And on that upbeat note, Happy Birthday to me.