Forty Something

My lips haven't hurt like this since love knows when. I've been kissing the wind all day and it hurts like live. Or life I should say. I had a free afternoon and I drunk it all away. If I write something while doing it, I consider it productive. No matter if my pen or fingertips are in it my family just sees it as self destructive. I'm not really sure which way the dice rolls at this point. I just know I miss her, mist burr, and list fears. Yeah, some of you get where I'm going. When all the withdraws on your memory bank are nothing but laughs you had together. At the time I made them happen, never thought her smile would make me so sad to remember. All of these drinks have left a fog on my breath. And I'm still trying to figure out if I haven't talked to another woman because I'm trying to be ok alone or too scared to be hurt again. I'm stuck in between trying to do what comes naturally and running against the grain when it comes to my masochistic tendencies. I need to flow. Let the art happen as it may. At the same time I need to dodge the bullets that hurt my friends and family. Dichotomy is a word I just can't rhyme with, let alone vibe to. I've always been one extreme to the other. Guess why thats the reason I've always been a lover fucker. My lips hurt real bad though, no dynamite. Feels great at the same time because serious make out sessions are the last time I've felt like this. I wonder why rubbing lips makes your mouth feel like fire. The wind must have been wearing blood red lipstic. It feels good to be noticed. I hope this reaches you in good spirits. I hope these spirits don't treat me so bad in the ante meridian. I have a recording session that says they possessed me like a mad man. I don't recognize the guy that sounds like me but thinking so fast. Honest in his lines. I feel like regular people can't understand what its like when you've brought all of your skeletons to the light and shed all the darkness that you kept inside. Thats the problem with being an artist. Even when you clean house, you're still left with nothing to write with and its just as haunting as bloody lips from kissing the wind.

-DCR