I tried to write a book today,
but ended up with notes of pity,
and enough self-mourning that I was
embarassed for others to read.
I flipped them over so I couldn't even see.
With thoughts of burning it.
To be once written manuscripts of an
autobiographical novel,
And then turn to black sheets of ash
that end up being dust in the all too common
northwestern wind.
Or perhaps, they shall be kept around
In a drawer that I will call "The Book Vault"
pull them out when the time is right and finish
sculpting my literary Mt. Rushmore of past
experiences and feelings.
no proper dealings for those pages
just tossed around decisions that can
only be caught one at a time for every
chaotic situation the day brings to my
cluttered life.
another possibility:
Those words of alphabetical letters
could wind up being the flesh and bones
of a book that took 5 or 6 lives to make.
and in God's eyes is considered a manifesto
that encompasses the very essence of man
that spans the past, present, and future
of our empy humanity.
whatever the result may be,
might have to wait till tomorrow or the next day
When I clean my room and read it on the floor
dead sober
just before I take another day by the collar
in hopes to domisticate it into thinking I am master
of it's universe.
then I will decide what is best for its fate.
-Johnny Bluebird
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