Angry Young Man Rants from Storage Closet

Mantra

j3black — Sun, 30 Sep 2007 15:16:16 +0000

I believe, I believe
my song
hums like it’s poetry

I believe
the singer
hums like poetry

I’ve been standing in the nick of time for so long
I’ve been waiting like it’s my rainbow
Someday, my song

I believe, I believe
anything
I believe
I just want to talk about myself

I feel October having its way with me again

I smell
the hum
of electricity

I believe
you
are my best friend

Someday, my song
in the nick of time
humming like poetry

8 November 1990
Age 21

j3black — Sun, 23 Sep 2007 17:51:46 +0000

Somehow, I’m weightless
and not for real
with exaggerated claims
of what’s mine.

Bent, turned, torn,
I’m not yet healed,
but how am I injured?
Wings that have never grown can’t be broken.

Burning in Sunday blues,
vomiting happiness like poison.
I’m still in Limbo,
in resembled darkness.

My wings grow,
stretch
beyond my flesh,
Pain is medicine.

The past has passed.
Former saviors have become mortal.
Torments I nourished starve.

But Sunday blues return:
happiness is just poison.
I’m still in Limbo.

16 December 1990
Age 21

j3black — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 18:27:24 +0000

Rival flowers
up at all hours
killing time and making plans—
hold out your hands.

Spilling out and
spiraling down,
fragile, cool, and clean.
Trust me.
I trust my instincts:
Paint me gold.

Up at all hours
making plans for profit—
hold up your hands.

Trust me.
I say my prayers
although I don’t believe.
I trust my instincts:
Paint me gold.

23 May 1990
Age 20