Forgive me, friend, I had been skipping rocks from the beginning.
Another cursed devotee from childhood.
As they say,
I have become comfortably…numb.
My yellow-brick road…stands brittle with sand and gravel.
I seesaw between what is and what has been done.
I cherish amid the drawn lines…every campfire song…sung.
Ghost tales reduced by the midday’s sun.
Our gossip, rusty from the probability of love.
Every flung red Chuck…now faint from hanging onto wire…too long.
I have sometime back, given up on…
Voodoo dolls with no style…
Holy Rollers with crooked smiles.
I have not been a perfect person.
And, similar to a child, I wear a yellow slicker around my heart.
Miles have aged what I do,
the games I have played
and the wars I have waged.
Forgive me friend, a glass of Dandelion wine begs me to stray.
Anyone who experienced abuse, neglect, alienation, etc., as a child…always had a ‘go to song’. A song that could be played over and over and over again….in order to emphasize our feeling of being distended by society. Of course, I am old enough to have played those ‘sad’ songs on 8 track cassette, cassettes and DVD’s.
So much so were these despondent lyrics played that the flexible strand known as ‘tape’ would rip and tear and therefore, no longer usable. The same could be said for video cassettes…but that is a subject for another time.
And, of course, there was always a go to song for the ‘happy’ times…but that too is a subject for another time.
Currently because I am going through a ‘difficult’, reflective time…we need to focus on ‘sadness’.
I think of all the friends I’ve known
But when I dial the telephone
If you are currently wanting to lick your wounds and cover yourself in sadness…You are welcome!
Melodramatic song…the words have brought to fruition…all my wrongs.
Familiar verses of lazy melancholia…shakes a being to the core.
To give in.
The ‘out running’… being off-key.
I have heard enough of ‘not good enough.’
Laying myself to rest.
Ear to the wall, screams fade into make-believe.
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
Edgar Allan Poe/ Alone