The poet who used Bible pages as rolling sheets.
The blue eyed girl who came from heaven
Or somewhere far away in the UK.
The man with eyes of different colors;
Always in and out of tattoo shops, wandering around
With my initials on his skin — well,
He didn’t know who he was,
But I did
The local boy who today is twenty eight
And moved to Switzerland
Ages ago, crying the sadness
Of a lonely sixteen year old…
And the blond dreamer who liked guns
But hated my fear of them
I am never sure. I can’t ever say
I know what I want
Or wanted that day, even if my faith
Is stronger than this world.
I’m never predictable,
I can’t read myself —
I’m a dubious fool in a haze; my heart
Is always changing colors
(But god, if real, knows I always will
Love my dear Morrissey)
Throwing up feelings, rambling, overthinking. Not sure if this is a poem or not, but I hope someone out there thinks this is avant-garde instead of pure confusion and nostalgia.