Writing is not cathartic, even though its feeling of release is present; it is not enlightening, however, it provokes critical thinking; it is not, above all, entertaining, nonetheless it transports you. I write in order to rationalize interiority, to catch emic experiences with a net. Everything, however, revolves and remains inside.

Thursday, November 02, 2006

Halloween 2006, or my horses gone wild.

I wonder:

Why won't they just leave us alone.

Their hate,

It's heavy,

We feel the weight of their hate

And it's too heavy, man...

They want us dead

Or alive, to better torment us

This fact is unclear;

The motives behind the fact, plain unknown

(Or forgotten).

There is an aim, the aim IS clear:

To make us feel guilty for things we can't change

To provoke a response that will confirm what they though about us

In the first place, but was not there in the first place!

We want to be one

But they won't leave us alone.

The party,

It's ours,

We jig lifeblood 'til it's up, but

It's not worth our blood

My essence ain't style.

My essence ain't style.

Not a choice

Or a fad.

With an iron brand, I burn in your head:

We took up arms because you went up in arms *

You are the fags.

Their hate,

It's heavy,

We feel the weight of their hate

And it's heavy,

Too heavy and unjust, man.


* (Your kind has a strung history of devaluing difference)

1 comment:

donnie said...

You're not 'the fags'. Stop tormenting yourself about yourselves. Show everyone you give a shit. Once you told me you were happy about it. I liked you more that way.

If it speaks to you...