yeah this is some poetry. form what seem sot be so long ago. comments welcome. although i have noticed people don't usually reply to things i say. talking about finding a new path, he has started a journey towards his own mortality. writing songs and whispering the lyrics, into the pagan ears of his brethren. i was once so happy, and i used to be free. i didn't care about the way things were, or how badly it hurt. he kissed my forehead and told it was all okay. and i see myself pushing him off of me. i was never your whore! and he tells me, so softly... "just shut up and kiss me." this wretched feeling in my gut, as he undoes his pants. i am kicking and biting. this is not what i wanted to feel, this isn't love. as he reminices now about how he had a dream about me. i wonder if the kiss he claims, really happened. and i remember how he wouldn't accept me as myself. and how i was so shallow to care what you thought, you bastard. maybe i should be skinny, maybe you would love me more. but none of that matters now. the loneliness is so real, i bleed. and you recite proverbs to strippers and claim that you are enlightented. i wonder if that will make you realize how much you hurt me. as i lay there in your arms, realizing how much you have tainted my bed. is she pure? does she think you are a god or at least her equal? does she slap you in the face when you say something deceitful? maybe you always had the ability to fool, those around you. and maybe i was only selling tickets to the greatest show on earth. eKs 5-17-99 this time that i have here in this, distraction to earn money. is going to drive me mad. i speak quietly so that only one person can hear. the one i am talking to. coughing blood. the way they all look is so, strange. the woman on the phone is weeping. something has gone terribly wrong. we are supposed to make light of their problems. laugh because they don't understand these things that we have been lucky enough, to be taught. to my left is a small boy, with such a beautiful body. he holds a ball, and i want to throw away this place and go play with him. the music playing is reminicent of Italy. the man's raspy voice, curls inside my ear. "3 at evening, flat on our backs by dawn.for me it's 2 pm." this shiver in my jaw, makes it hard to concentrate. as this Scotsman, sings this requem made, i want to belive, only for me. causeing this emotional flux inside me. and i want to touch the curls his voice makes through the air. there is something that is like a silioqy, for the buddah. my search continues. eKs 2.26.99 2pm i realize now that techsupport was some of my most creative times. but it made me so damn frustrated and unhappy. how about them apples?