October 12, 1999: Bridge over troubled waters
What must this hand think each morning I wake? To take such beatings, a workout, then two hours of solid writing…looking at it so often, it’s as if I fail to care. A tool, are the self-delivered whispers. They’re what I trust to always be there. Paint stained from a late night adventure—a teal colored blue, dark as night, fooled like a sunrise. Outside of my own sight, what must the world think? Within the soul I smile a peaceful grin…for I don’t care what others assume. Yet, beware if you travel near. I am just as quick to judge—a weakness and or form of protection. Bring no opinion, for I have my own interpretation. I sit and wonder far longer, leaving no room for you to enjoy. My space is the self-delivered whispers…conceit? Yeah maybe—but I deserve to be.