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Freedom and fuck you forever


VaderOnIce

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Freedom and fuck you forever

I was going to write a lame ass poem about freedom. About an empty refrigerator meaning you can buy whatever you want. About how having a pair of shoes means being able to walk wherever the hell you want to. I was going to get my sketchbook and draw a woman leaning her head on her arms on a table, tired. I was going to write all this down in a date book someone let me have because it's from 2004 and is no longer of any use to anybody except crazy people like me that thought, well, shit at least I can stil write in it even if the date is fucked. I was going to write about freedom because I feel trapped some of the time. A lot of the time. Because I feel if I make too big a move I might break something or get hurt or be very very scared.

 

It was going to be one of those HORRIBLE list poems, like, one of those you read around valentine's about Love is this and love is that and love surely isn't fucking coming up behind me right now to say, "Baby, come to bed, I like it when you're next to me and you keep my feet warm even though yours always stay cold because they are on the outer edge of us, taking the brunt of the cold."

 

ANd I would go, the dumbass I am because I somehow thought growing up and being a nice guy was the way to go. But it turns out I have to be an asshole most of the time so that the women stay confused and interested. Nice is boring.

 

I was going to write a poem about freedom, about being able to do as you please, about going to the tattoo parlor and getting a peacock quill (with real eyes in it, aren't I original) writing the word "Maker" on my shoulder, about going to jog around the block at midnight, a knife in my hoodie's belly pocket, about playing Eric Clapton's cocaine as loud as possible, knowing it's making whatever birds are in the tree behind the house high.

 

I wish I had some clever fucking thing to say to end this, but I don't. I'm just sitting here in the dark, drenched in sweat, my chest heaving, looking for a way out, hoping that when Stevie Ray Vaughn finsihes fighting the strings on his guitar to tell me the sky is crying, that this is all just a bad dream and I wake up on the other side, where forever and freedom are lovers and not 2 sides of the same coin, biting at each other in an attempt to make the coin spin forever.

 

Fuck forever. forever's for nothing. forever's for life insurance. forever's for paying off your plot at the cemetary. forever's a pain in the ass. for every time you worry about forever, now is standing behind you, arms crossed, begging for attention. But the second you are nice to forever, it will leave you confused.

 

So fuck you forever.

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