Sunday, 12 October 2008

Pink Bullets.

Oh dear.

I like boys
with strong convictions
and convicts
with perfect diction
with good intentions
with stamp collections
plywood surfboards
ride the ocean
salty noses
suntan lotion
always seriously joking
and rambunctiously soft-spoken

I like boys
that like their mothers
and I have
a thing for brothers
but they always wait
'til we're under covers
to say
I'm sure glad
we're not lovers.

Most of the time, I feel the need to curse my natural spontaneity because of all the trouble it gets me into. On the contrary, on this particular occasion I am mighty thankful for this rather childlike trait of mine. Without it I would not have discovered that it is pointless to try and rationalize, and by doing so destroying, any emotion that is present. I've been trying to figure out my empty state of heart for some time now. I did not realize that a matter of heart cannot be figured out by contemplation, which usually is my way of getting through everything. 

Baby steps are the key through this bafflement. Breathe in. Breathe out. Sigh.

I'm naked
I'm numb
I'm stupid
I'm staying
and if Cupid
has got a gun
then he's shooting.

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