Rest, The

But we are the builders of things magnificent.
We are inspired by the grossness of what we understand, and if there's anything I've learned in my time under the surface, it's that you don't get a damn thing done by wondering.

My Mother is a Child, and This is my Only Pen

I remember those days
when that
a haze in my head,
a glaze in my stare,
and a half dead icy awareness
made my company
-atmosphere-
a part of me
left
a body away from where the rest of me was trying to be.

I remember wondering
if happy endings were made up
misconceptions
fucked up
ways of building dreams
for children and other people who don't like to think about what I think about.

I still wonder, of course,
setting death aside for a moment.
Enough to try and figure
what the hell we still try for.

It's the little things, I guess.
Then further: is that enough to combat the real big rest left out there....


Probably not.