Guest guest Posted January 9, 2008 Report Share Posted January 9, 2008 Here I sit on a hot park bench with wooden splinters stabbing my point of contact scraping ideas and possibilities together like two sticks trying to light a fire in my primitive mind ...I'd make a lousy caveman. Communication shouldn't have to be such a struggle. I could just draw a stick-man, and a stick-buffalo on a cave wall, but ... thirty-thousand years would have to pass for someone to take notice. why is it I would want to talk to you anyhow? What are you to me? Hell... you're not even real. You're just a figment on a wall in my mind-cave. I made you in my image like some voo-doo doll to do things to symbolically that I'm too afraid to do and feel myself. Why subject myself to the deep-end, when I can project onto you everything I fear? Seems shallow standing in water ankle-high while looking out into an ocean that can reach out and grasp the horizon... what's it's elusive secret? Water... It composes my flesh, my evolution, my womb experience... I feel pulled like the tide dragged by the fullness of moons toward depths to drown myself… And there's nothing to lose… because I'm just a salt-doll shaking off it's hex. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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