Don’t Write This One…

Seriously, this is Dave Matthews’ & Tim Reynold’s faults…Dancing Nancies. Sitting there last night, cursing myself for returning for a second into some grilled cheese hipster, I just could not turn off my brain, its ways already rolling downhill toward that place.

It goes like this: Why can’t I be 5 again? And just put up a fight? Why can’t I go back? Just erase everywhere I have been. Take away all the hurt and pain, make my lovers strangers? Make my family proud? Why am I still here, vacant stares, shotgun my intentions, and call the splatter art? What could I have been if I didn’t follow someone else’s dreams? Infiltrate the Ivy League, actually apply myself  and become someone. I am sinking into regret. I hate it here. I could have been anything I wanted, if I had only known what that was…now everyone sees me for who I was, not who I am…Enough disappointment to go around the world more than a few times in a day. I feel old, tired and broken…and it’s all a consequence of my own hand. I am overexposed and under developed. I am your unfulfilled wet dream. Why… Where did it all go wrong? Why am I wired this way? Why couldn’t the ambulance get lost? Why am I saying all these things I don’t believe?

Life is a cliché these days. Go out and get em next time kid. Tomorrow is another fuckin day. My rose-colored glasses shattered looking into my nova. No one really gets it, since I am left to wonder most times. Words tumble out, like that last drink you know is too much to handle. The past 4 hours come flying out…I was 21 when I had surgery on my knees. The pain killers put a perma-smile on my face. At 23, I had to have that smile back. 15 years later I became an anomaly. Still alive somehow, grasping sobriety, and left to look back over my shoulder as to when the next bullet was fired. Seems life has terrible aim, as it should really.

While Whitney Houston gains the attention, I found out that a guy I knew didn’t make it a day into 30. Every time I hear a friend has died, I ask the rhetorical why am I still here? When a celebrity is swooned over, I get pissed off. Her weakness is a praised tragedy, while my buddy’s mom will probably be surrounded by all of ten people tomorrow. Another unknown pariah, tossed into the ground…good riddance. There is no discount on this pain. A stranger to the masses buried in the cold rain.

Tomorrow is another day…not for him. By my math, I am on about day 5000 of borrowed time. All around me nothing seems to be changing, too many shut eyes or closed minds to shake awake. I am tired. But I still draw my own doors to open. Thank God for today. To be grateful that voice can be silenced, turned out on Dixie for the lie it is. That my eyes aren’t dead, and my intentions are pure. That when all else fails, there is comfort in another day void of substances.

I do this for me. I do it for someone else I don’t know because we are strangers only in name. I know you feel the same way at times, and it’s cool, just remember there is always something to be grateful for, even if it’s just your next breath. Who knows, 25 breaths from now, opportunity might just come knocking at your door. Be strong enough in yourself to answer it.

Good night…no quote…

Peace -MFJ



One thought on “Don’t Write This One…

  1. So true about the celebrity thing. And so annoying. They keep talking about “She’s joined the ranks of those ‘artists who died tragically before her time'” What? She did have a lovely voice, but….Ignoring the fact she was 43 and had a teenage kid. So does not belong grouped with Winehouse, Morrison, Joplin, or James Dean – other than the fact that they all were performers who had self destructive behavior.
    Anyway, enough of that. Liked your post. so true

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