Niggas is decaf, I stick em for the creeeeam.
I most likely won't be writing here any more. I've slumped off so bad it's not funny. Ask me, I'll tell you I do it to spite those that don't like random lyrics. I'm not a poet.
It's coming from the right brain, off the cuff, left field. Call it butter when it's on a roll.
My philosophy is now that there is no philosophy. It's all beautiful and contributes to what it attempts to dismantle. If either is correct it's not possible without the other and the other functions within the original as part of and an ends to. The objective is objective and it's all peace and popsicles from here. Embrace something that can embrace anything, find those things in yourself.
Being a real man to me now is what some would perhaps call a punk. What's a word for a fist fight or some shit kicking? There's not one. Not one to get it like that. There actually is, but it's never personal. If you find those buttons, don't fuck with them. What used to be a struggle to push a boy beyond the lines he'd enclosed himself in to ostracize those around him and include whom he chose to get the comfort going is now the cause for pause that pushes who is now closer to a man deep inside to find all I'd despise, and I'm thankful. I'm grateful to feel as if it's an even plane.
What is loss and gain? They both put fear in me. I feared I'd never gain and when I did I feared I'd lose it. And when I feared, I did lose it. I lost many its many times. I took it inside and inside and inside. When I attempted to convince myself I felt wronged. I love the very things that have brought me the most anguish and shown me what it's like to come down from up. I love being put in my place. It IS mine, after all. MY place. I want to stay there and fix it up a bit. Have something nice to come home to after a hard day's lesson.
The end result however, is no fear. Earnest, intense, heartfelt, and gut-wrenching considerations and gratitude to be near anything that reciprocates. No pressure to push. If I push, it felt right. If I pull, I wanted to. I can live with what happens, I will. Mistakes are part of it. It's only complicating because the truth is so often not what you'd want when you're on the other side of something. To be in control, to be a man to me now, is to control your control. Slow your roll, cowboy.
Is the man really a punk who doesn't retaliate? Is he the one who's spineless who denies what may well up inside him and drive him to do what those in earshot expect? Defend that ego and impress those who aren't interested anyway.
Talk shit and walk it or that sweet angel you've got hanging on your arm looking good and fucking you right may just toss the salad of the guy who punked you out from the passenger seat of his car as they flee the scene. Right.
Put out and obey or that perfect gentleman you've got on top of you protecting you from yourself and talking sweetly when he wants it may find another pretty face to poke and a sweeter voice to gag. Right.
Get real with it and don't sell out for a lay. If they're good, and you're good, and it's good, it will be good. Just let it be.
There's too much space in me now to be moved so far as to feel that way. "It's all love here."
Typos can be funny. It's all understanding. I've forgiven each of them, because I was so naive through it as well. I was in control when I ceased trying to control and accepted the outcome of the play, whether I ignored the calls from the sidelines or not. Whether I scored or not. He was a hero or a failure to the Friday night crowd based on the decision, he was a genius or an imbecile for denying the wisdom of the authorities. But he did it. I learn and love either way. You told me so, maybe so, but we learn for ourselves anyway, eh?
Let me know it's real son, if it's really real.
Sometimes though, by God, I want to burn things down. Sometimes I do lash back. Sometimes I forget, and sometimes I get messy. Perhaps it's part of being a man. There's a line between letting ignorance slide, and letting slyness prevail. Letting them take the inch or two, and being truly, truly taken advantage of. Being unconditional, and being a 5 for a 1 who doesn't give a 4 about it.
If war is ever just, then peace is sometimes sinful.
Though there's an acceptance of the shortcomings. There are always shortcomings. There are failures. There are my insecurities. There are biases, seen and unseen. Felt and unfelt. Deep and shallow. Narrow and wide. By God, there's imperfection in it all. But isn't it so right? Isn't it so perfect to have that imperfection? Isn't it relieving to see them for yourself? To learn about yourself from watching others? To grow? If anything is ever and was ever true, it is. If nothing was, it's still just as freeing. Hold someone dearly and laugh together in acceptance over the few cents short you are from a fairy tale. There's no happily ever after, because we know now no ever after. Happiness waxes and wanes. In real life, I seek the 'lovingly enjoined for this lifetime' ending. Let's be angry together. Let's bicker. Let's cry together. But let's love each other in it. I'm grateful to have learned. Keep teaching me.
Let's put space between. Let's rejoin. Let's talk. Let's share silence. It's too short to hate. What I once valued is meaningless. I value what values it all. Which means I value the good exponentially more than I ever did before. I didn't know what was good until I tried a few cups of sour. A man could get evil for the sweet. It's that good. But a taste is all one needs. A taste every now and then. Give me sour, remind me how blessed my tongue is when that sweetness hits. Remind me if I ever have a cup for myself every day of the old sour so that I remain grateful. Grant me that. I won't chug it all down. I won't lap at it ceaselessly. Don't ever let me grow complacent with it in hand. I want to sip slowly, unto death. I want to never finish. I want to wonder about what's left. I want to die smiling about that last little bit in the bottom of my cup, surely the sweetest of the sweet I never tasted. All the better for the mysteries of it.
Yeah there's a piece gone. If there's one, surely it belongs to itself. I can imagine it altogether, if I can get near the piece. I can conceive. I'll not have it teetering along the edges and fall unwittingly in, nor coax it. These practices are boyish brute force shoves of the square block into the circle. Give the cat the sardines even if it doesn't come over. You can watch from afar and smile. Love that moment and don't miss those smelly fish. Though your cracker is bare, its belly is full and it sits content and lazy.
Perhaps it thinks of you.
Perhaps it would have preferred a little ketchup;
but you were honest,
and offered what you had,
and it was hungry,
not too good for your offering.
Or more fitting,
(and just as surprising)
your offering was good enough after all.
Want it raw deal son, if it's really real...