Monday, September 15, 2008


There was a time when I was prepared to write the brutal truth. When the world had ended [moved on without me - the whole fucking world] and I felt as though I could write my way out of it. I thought that was what I did. But really, all I did was write a new world, a fictional world, one that I could watch objectively, one where I would never get hurt, one where the hurts I caused would not scar, or bite back, or bleed, no blood, never any blood. I made the world around me with callous disregard. I lied to the sky to create the rain. I charged over the horizon before the horizon had time to create another. I stood in the vacuum of my own ambition. I drank. I drugged. I lost my belief in people. I became so numb, my kindness had teeth, and my love brought sadness and my hope was escape, a promise I'd borrowed from a lifetime of fantasy. 
All I wanted to do, was regret what I hadn't done.
All I wanted to do, was not look at myself, but run.
When I was in the country, I said, g'day mate.
When I was in a club, I said, let's get on it.
When I was holding hands, I said, god your eyes look beautiful.
When I was staring at the mirror, I 
turned away quickly
not knowing what to say
or what I would hear
or what I would see in these eyes
I don't know what is in these eyes
sometimes I think I try
and other days
I die
knowing that I could be better
if I wasn't my own bitter

Run, rabbit.


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