Saturday, 21 May 2011

Year four.

the worst part is when you remember what it was.
it comes up, in a dimly lit bar (you're going on in a moment)
For a while we talk about the small things, building momentum
i don't know whether it was me or him, but the subject came up
and then the said subject couldn't change for about ten minutes-
I remember how i used to live. When my small shoes would hurt,
count dhalsim-stretched hours, tea with milk you knew was sour
the only place to rest your head is the glass-laminated desk,
left alone but not lonely, no regrets because no matter how bad it'd get,
i'd have a home to come home to. No matter how bad it'd get,
i'd always have a beacon of a dependable woman to remind me
after this, it gets better, and it has, but the beacon's become a poll
what helped me get through it now has me regret leaving it
when i was without a penny, i had my lady, now i see women daily
but they'll never be put in the same position i put her in
as a model person, the goal that results in contentment: perfection
because that's not fair to anyone. I loved her more than anyone I'd known
and she hurt me more than anyone she ever hated, and i hate that
so it hurts every time i look back- I'm going on in a moment
the right track for me is living in the moment, the worst part is
during during this conversation i learnt it also happened to him
and probably every other comedian in the room- too soon.