Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Hooked.

You can't look me in the eyes,
You're tears flow and baptize my way forward,
The words you don't say, scream louder than your silence.

What you don't like about me,
wars against what I give you,
and you hate it so.

We come to this dance and all of us want to be chosen,
but no one is crazy about the music we are playing.

You can melt me with the strings, the keys and the beats,
you can make me a puddle and form me up again,
by words that pull me like strings on a marionette.

Cover your face, recount the many disgraces,
take me to your unholy places, where we try to forget the faces,
that grimace, wince and displace us.

I can melt you,
set you on fire,
reach down into you
and conjure that slow burning desire.

All in a day, a moment, a year or a decade,
it's all wrapped up in what I've been saying,
praying and forever dreaming of erasing.

I'm tired of worrying about what you're into buying,
selling, weaving, pleasing or continually trying.

My pictures want to come home,
songs for no one,
just words etched on the inside of a coffin.

the gray in my beard isn't meant for shaving,
the wrinkles are traces of places to revisit, to forget,
to no longer point towards.

What's living if it' all about something that's not,
instead of something that is?

In the end...it's really just the beginning.

-Eric Blauer (6.10.08)
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