Part the First
Written in a foolish fit of passion
For no one in particular
In the deceptive half light
Of a rainy morning
A beautifully tragic pain
Trembles through my soul
A lovely poison welcomed
To chase away my sorrows
Although only to create more
Oh his love and mine�
My hand reposes upon my breast
Feeling his words thrill through my heart
To echo tragically in my soul
Oh his love and mine�
Oh do not profane my guilty joy
Let me whisper his name into the dark
Allow me to throw caution to the wind
And indulge in bittersweet fantasies
Oh his love and mine�
Let my eyes grow bleary
From another sleepless night
Enveloped in the desperate
Ecstasy of this better love
Oh his love and mine�
My soul shall cry its happiness
With the cold rain washing my window
It shall wash the stain of bitterness from my soul
I shall rejoice and rest in the foolish abandon
Encased in the feeling
Enwrapped in those fatal words,
�I love him�
Part the second
Behold the smudged ink
Behold my shame
The words feel profane on my lips
Through my vastly obsessive misusage
Take my hand and wash the ink away
Kiss it and return it to me
Grant me forgiveness
For such foolish passion
Pure and innocent were his words
Unsuspecting and unambitious
Simple and childlike
And I have taken and raped them�
To death�
To death�
Should go�
His love and mine�
My friend Mary and I were discussing this poem along with some other related matters. We parted, and later, she wrote this at the beginning of her entry: (I have been gracious enough to edit her spelling for all of the commoners out there who are unable to understand phonetic spelling)
Why do people play with fire, when they already know it�s impossible not to get burned or scorched? Why do we try to salve our hurts by going right back to the very things that caused them? Do we really think we can find comfort in something that is suppose to be precious, but is used for are own selfishness, and by it made dirty? Can�t we see the foolery in this? ...Are we really that blind?
Now keep in mind, we never exactly exchanged these thoughts with each other, but a few hours before I talked to Mary, I wrote this...
Always killing...Mangling...
Abusing...
Profaning...
Raping...
The sweetest, most innocent, childlike, unsuspecting feelings, dreams, words, and ideas, can never be left. Our perverted will and grubby hands come to deconstruct something beautifully and intristically complex; into something base, vile, inferior, and "pleasureable". Well enough is never well enough. Oh our ugly corruption. All are subject
(NOTE: we are NOT discussing actual rape and abuse issues. I used those words for figurative purposes)
Our thoughts run the same course. Its a tad uncanny. I think we complimented each other well though. I will let each turn over those observations on their own, for I have nothing more to add.
In closing,
"Baby get me my gun...
Oh and baby, I think it might be better if I stopped calling you baby, and started calling you by your name.
But wait, baby, what is your name?"
I am not on drugs. Just sugar. Just ask the Legolas poster I was jokingly trying to kiss and the wall I banged the brim of my hat into in the attempt.
NOTE: Please everyone, try to remember, that that poem, and all this "My baby" nonsense, is, just that, nonsense. It is not some underlying implication of someone I know. This is all aimed to no one in particular. The last thing I need is to have any of you getting absurd ideas.