Full title: Despite what crazy poets would have you believe, there's nothing romantic about being out of your mind.

The story was, we were all outlaws,
not knowing, not fitting,
not members of the human race.
We were stuck wandering the wasteland,
even if there was nothing new in it,
nothing left to see, a barren landscape
already a million times explored,
but still we loved it, we thrived.
What else would we say about it?
Why wouldn't we write romantic
novelizations about blood and dirt, poems
about the taste of dust in our mouths?
We could never admit that we
had our fill of it, were tired of walking,
tired of the way the ground felt,
digging into the soles of our feet.
I see some tumbleweed, a rock,
a desert that stretches past
the boundaries of imagination,
and I think of being crazy.
I always made it seem so
beautiful, so essential to
the art of being passion-filled.
Pain is not pretty, my blood
is not a flower fit to burst,
to stain the brown corners
of my mind a vibrant red.
I'm going to go somewhere green,
alive, give my feet a rest.

12/22/2004

Posted on 12/22/2004
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