(no subject)
All I ask is that you don’t bury me alone; please bury me with the hurt, the ink stained fingertips, the blackened lungs, the fat lips and broken hearts, the dust, my hometown and this shitty valley air. Lonely nights and wasted days, the writer’s eyes, the loose leaf, the spent pens and worn shoes. The streets I’ve walked, the hands I’ve shaken and the shoulders I’ve leaned upon. My friends, my enemies and everyone in between. Bury me with the hugs and the blood, the tears and the passion, the bravery and the lies. With the internet, and the skin, the death, the heartache, the empty fields, the fast food. the talk radio, the fumes, the schools, the drama, the knowledge. The cuts, the scrapes, and the ensuing lessons learned. Bury me with California, between god and the white house. Somewhere where everyone will see my face, and follow the wrinkles to what it is that they need to know. Bury me in the hearts of all those who hated me, and in the memories of all those who didn’t. Bury me with my vices, numbered that they are, with my identity crisis, my bible and my Faulkner. Bury me with your ideals, with black music, with Johnny, Shawn, Paul, Neil and my shortcomings. Bury me with every shard of plastic that got me through high school, and every strip of vinyl that got me through the hereafter. Bury me with the ring in my wallet and the ring around my finger, the ring I can’t wear and the rings I never got to know. Bury me with my Pilot, my adopted cultures and the truth I found sitting in between your buildings. Bury me underneath your daughters, above your heart and in between what we never got to know.