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The Pumpkin King
Something here I'm not quite getting, though I try, I keep forgetting...
10-16
- I find myself sliding in and out of selves. Seeing myself in the different sides of the three-way mirror, not sure who it is on my left and right. Dividing my own membranes, watching the process. I'm made up of so many different versions of the same chord; inversions that sometimes take the dominant tonalities away.
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- Ask me what I am.
Ask me what I do.
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- Listen to my answer, then look at my mirror
and wonder with me who
that guy
in the
middle
really
is.
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- Because what you'll see isn't what I say. And what I say isn't what people hear.
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- Defining myself in escapes while I hide behind responsibilities.
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- Is there a crime here? Is there a victim? Is there a pattern, a connection, a reason at all?
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- Every day I do something. Everyday something gets done. Everyday a new event, a new realization, a new raccoon. But where does it go to when all I can think of is the things that didn't happen, didn't realize?
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- Racing in tar, swimming in the sand.
Waiting for the next chapter
pen in my hand.
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- I stayed up so late last night reading my own writing, seeing the patterns, reading the memories, reliving the feelings. It disappears from me sometimes, like AM radio under concrete overpasses. And it was this weird thing, because there were things I hadn't read in a long time that I found myself surprised by. Sitting there in the monitor glow, thinking to myself, "Wow, that's really good."
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- Yet I came away from the entire experience disappointed with myself. Like all that work should have built a taller tower, a stronger bridge, a better trap, or a smarter mouse.
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- Lets look back the pages. Lets search the archives. Lets count the times that I say
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- I went back and read my own writing
I haven't written anything in ages
I've run out of gas on this job
I saw a dolphin in the water
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- This looping, this accursed retracing of steps… The way the story keeps repeating. The way I find myself at the end of the emptiness with nothing but commas and supposed cleverness. Every time I'm at the intersection I turn left thinking it's a different way this time around. And I keep ending back up here, looking for a way to get past another month without writing, without music, without inertia or kinetics.
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- Someone keeps bringing me back here.
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- Short thoughts written against blue backgrounds - I'll tell you what happened without showing you what I'm feeling. I'll show you my left reflection knowing that it's hard to read the backwards images on the right.
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- Sometimes I honestly don't feel like I can be honest here. Sometimes I leave things out. Sometimes I really don't have a way to put it into verse. Sometimes I open the gates, and the screams make no sound.
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- It shouldn't be that way,
But sometimes it is.
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- Then a reflection steps out of the glass, and the thoughts pour red.
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- A room full of admirers, a bar full of strangers, a bowlful of cherry memories, pit-iful hungers.
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- Everybody saw.
Everybody watched in silence
No one said a word.
The Id wasn't meant to be starved.
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- Draw me in. Touch me. Be different. Be unique. Be vulnerable. Be real.
Make me know that it isn't just the moment, the music, the occasion.
Don't look under my mask. Don't tell me you need me.
Don't say anything.
Just make me feel again.
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- The phone rings.
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Three mirrors.
One face.
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