Underland

Just remember: it's never about you.





Do YOU understand your ancestry?
That fussy hair, your deep-set eyes, softly dipped nose, well-placed lips and hard-lined build?
"Yes, I was a soldier. I know of brutality."

Women will want you.



(I only cared about 85% of what he said. I only care for about 60% of what you say.)
But we still manage.




I.
Springtimes past a blue windy suburbia, the Wal-mart in the warm burnt rain and the long drives home rumbling along a pickup road; with headlights. Old shop and rooster swings. Cotton draped over my elbows and dusk igniting over incandescent-stabled manors, grass wavering, chirps hushing. The folk are going home.

II.
Remember Alexandria, broken columns and falling leaves that leave: gold in her eyes and rugged wear, spare pistols aside. The water, lighter than island innocence, so lonesomely banked under the spiraling light within the great stone form. Alone across the world.





Cheaters are narcissists.
Only trying to save ourselves from a greater evil. You can't see it pushing down.


Watch yourself, boy. I could teach you many things about yourself. I want to.
But then I'd ruin it for you. I'm holding back. Just remember: it's never about you.
You are so shamelessly imperfect.