He will make you sigh with silent, seething rage at his every imbecilic word. His slights are slight, his wit is dull, and his general line of thinking is that of a ten year-old, an average ten year-old, or the lacking equivalent thereof. He's like a cancer that cannot be cut away, unless totally abandoned, and that would entail no heavy price. In fact, it could be the answer to more soothing dreams and less tension about the fists.
Make a robe for me,
make it three feet high
with green lapels swinging free,
and a gangly belt that will not tie,
and a pocket for widgets and such
with my crest upon the back,
make the pouch small as to not carry much,
so I can never hope for much to lack.
♪
And that's the song of seven!
♬
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
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