Saturday, March 12, 2005


I have two hearts. The first pumps blood, the other: aether. Black and oily, I put the aether pump in place myself. It seemed stark and powerful at first, but my habits avail myself to its presence. Only I seem to see the blemishes on my skin from where the aether escapes. They grow daily. You can't smell the aether, that's something only I can do. However, if you're smart, you can see the same effects I deal with in all my social situations. No matter how heavy, strong, or sharp the sword of my hope is forged, I remain out of place. You've all seen it. I don't match my environment; I have little to nothing in common with any of you. That's a reason why I write: I want the rest of you to know how unahappy I've become, and experience at least a small piece of it with me. How horrible is that? Art should serve a wider purpose than the brutish display of my unhappiness. After all, countless poems later, I have yet to meet any goals save quantity and publication. It doesn't seem to matter how often or incessantly I display my verses, the words never stick, and I am still alone. I keep hoping to wake up next to understanding and love delivered at the point of my pen, but every day, I only wake up with more poems, ever more aloof from all of you. The true air passes in and out of my lips, drips from my pen, and leaks from my skin; mutual revulsion and solitude follow closely.

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