where i could
off smack and moving in a few weeks to a place where people have souls, if not seated upon their solar-plexes, then at least in their suitcases. i'm not taking any other drugs either, other than exactly prescribed, not that i give a damn if anyone else does. it was always about the people for me. didn't any of you understand that?
something that pleases me the most is having a good conversation with a homeless person or street kid. a traveler. a kitchen worker in a place i'm temping. my parents tried to create something that they didn't have the money to raise in such a way, and we always return to what was originally written on our graves, a priori, I believe.
give me a girl i've met 5 times in person or less who named me years ago, or the kid who taught me how to play poker in the underbelly of nyc whom i still know. give me my best friend whom i love again and who loves me back after mutually backstabbing each other. my sin was pride, i can't remember yours, just that you made a 180 after hurting me and let yourself be completely vulnerable in front of me when I had the power to strip you further.
don't give me sociopathic self-pity. give me my therapist of 7 years who gives me a name for what i've gotten in return for being born--post traumatic stress disorder, said in irony, said with knowledge that my life can be mirrored in any fucked up event i've ever experienced--micro in macroscopic, either/or, doesn't matter I suppose. i was 'let go' after losing money for a company for whose customers i cared dearly about, catered to, loved, whose pet's name's, telephone numbers, grandmother's birthdays I remembered, but not before I was tricked into training my replacement, who, like my former boss, will not understand the benefits she will be reaping in months to come, my crop--profit trails rather distantly behind agony as if to dispel those unable to trust the faith of the unimaginable, of some sort of beauty we all know but whose face remains a mystery to us until we recognize.
recognition. a type of memory unto its own. before i let go i was always in a hurry to keep my stories perfectly left behind in their own perfect packages and as i died all i could do was recognize a few defective, but loving faces by my death bed. i've changed beyond recognition now and as i part ways again, all i can think of is how i've been hardened to the point where i don't call anyone to vent anymore, hardened to opinion, hardened to apathy, and hardened to the truth i wasnt told growing up, and i'll say this in two ways, that even if you would do anything for someone, they won't necessarily or usually do, or want to do the same for you, even if you would do something for someone, they won't necessarily, or usually, do, or want to do, the same for you.
something that pleases me the most is having a good conversation with a homeless person or street kid. a traveler. a kitchen worker in a place i'm temping. my parents tried to create something that they didn't have the money to raise in such a way, and we always return to what was originally written on our graves, a priori, I believe.
give me a girl i've met 5 times in person or less who named me years ago, or the kid who taught me how to play poker in the underbelly of nyc whom i still know. give me my best friend whom i love again and who loves me back after mutually backstabbing each other. my sin was pride, i can't remember yours, just that you made a 180 after hurting me and let yourself be completely vulnerable in front of me when I had the power to strip you further.
don't give me sociopathic self-pity. give me my therapist of 7 years who gives me a name for what i've gotten in return for being born--post traumatic stress disorder, said in irony, said with knowledge that my life can be mirrored in any fucked up event i've ever experienced--micro in macroscopic, either/or, doesn't matter I suppose. i was 'let go' after losing money for a company for whose customers i cared dearly about, catered to, loved, whose pet's name's, telephone numbers, grandmother's birthdays I remembered, but not before I was tricked into training my replacement, who, like my former boss, will not understand the benefits she will be reaping in months to come, my crop--profit trails rather distantly behind agony as if to dispel those unable to trust the faith of the unimaginable, of some sort of beauty we all know but whose face remains a mystery to us until we recognize.
recognition. a type of memory unto its own. before i let go i was always in a hurry to keep my stories perfectly left behind in their own perfect packages and as i died all i could do was recognize a few defective, but loving faces by my death bed. i've changed beyond recognition now and as i part ways again, all i can think of is how i've been hardened to the point where i don't call anyone to vent anymore, hardened to opinion, hardened to apathy, and hardened to the truth i wasnt told growing up, and i'll say this in two ways, that even if you would do anything for someone, they won't necessarily or usually do, or want to do the same for you, even if you would do something for someone, they won't necessarily, or usually, do, or want to do, the same for you.