(whoknows)

What should I think? I feel easy. Life feel`s easy in a slutty disposable kind of way. Cheap, awkward and secretly beautiful like a crying teenage lover. Thinking everything I feel is so damn important. A cliche repeater, serial, pulp paper back burning. You want the challenge, you like the way the words sound. Then you fuck it and it was just a good idea so you throw it away. At least thats how I feel tonight and maybe at some point this will change. Maybe tonight I'll teach my self something about love and faith. Maybe I'll just go to bed wondering why every time I think I'm making some headway I lapse back into confusion. Television humming, tea on the table; candles lit and burning. I guess it serves me right for falling apart on others time after time. Sooner or later you build yourself a reputation. People start shrugging off excuses and the phone goes black and still. A dead ringer for a lost evening. I smile at the people on the street and watch as they walk by. I'll trade you for that happy go lucky night on the town. I've learned to live on my own and rely on no one but myself. Luck though I am for family that loves me and a few last souls that care. I still find it easy to stumble on sadness and longing with every mile worn and every stone thats thrown.
Now all I want is to feel that sun. The kind you feel shining on you when you know who your friends are. I guess I know but I did well at murdering those old days. Through folly and neglect the gates rusted shut. Laughing tends to go silent when you don't bother opening your mouth. Memories go dim and dusty when you don't reciprocate the love that others show you. Sometimes I feel like a soldier come home to ghosts. Find a world that has changed around him. Everyone grew up and moved on while I fought my own personal war with myself. One someone could turn into a film. It`s funny how the screenplay those great epic war movies never tackle what happens when the oddessys done. The distortion and the displacement when the hero comes home. I ain`t nobodys hero. So when I'm down I won't drink or cry or take a war bride. I'll pick up and pen and ask myself. How did I get here. When did I find the time to build this stale reliquary to house a bleeding heart and a silent soul. When did I find the time with that gun in my hand. Pointed at my own head ducking in a muddy trench. These days instead of pining of lost and forgotten glories; I`ll ask where I strayed and where it was I chose to cut my own throat. I`ll write an eulogy for an evening. Not pissed off just wondering if it really was me all along that was pushing everyone away. Maybe I grew up. Maybe this is life`s way of telling me that it is no longer a girl that comes easily when smiled at. Maybe this life has grown into a woman and I have to fight for her attention. Maybe she plays hard to get.
Either way confusion abounds.

What`s new, what should I think...