I remember it well.
That naive kind of love
shared through anonymity
when, in fact, I knew it was you all along.
Things haven't changed very much from then,
have they?
We still write
but with a more
colorful
vocabulary.
And with this
I vicariously replace my virtues
with violent vibes and
vaudeville-esque veneers.
I try to become more mature than I was back then
with these words
that fill these notebooks
that ooze
adventure and joy and sorrow and hatred and lust and violence and praise and thanksgiving and trust and disbelief and doubt and
hope
and pain.
My truthbox is full of letters to myself.
Letters that wouldn't fit in an envelope
to send to you.
So I let you read them on that schoolyard bench
under the lamppost.
Did you pay attention to detail?
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 5:41 AM UTC
I remember it well.
That naive kind of love
shared through anonymity
when, in fact, I knew it was you all along.
Things haven't changed very much from then,
have they?
We still write
but with a more
colorful
vocabulary.
And with this
I vicariously replace my virtues
with violent vibes and
vaudeville-esque veneers.
I try to become more mature than I was back then
with these words
that fill these notebooks
that ooze
adventure and joy and sorrow and hatred and lust and violence and praise and thanksgiving and trust and disbelief and doubt and
hope
and pain.
My truthbox is full of letters to myself.
Letters that wouldn't fit in an envelope
to send to you.
So I let you read them on that schoolyard bench
under the lamppost.
Did you pay attention to detail?
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