Icarus's blog: "Hurts to watch."

I wish I had something mercifully meaningful and insightful to tell you.
Something dark, droll and true to your uniquely mass-production brand of suffering,
but its not there.
I'm too distracted with pink haired sluts
with ellaborate tattoos
suspiciously devoid of tan lines
Of mice scurrying through my realm
chewing on my hand-bled notes,
praising the quality of my hard earned goods
which they then proceed to deficate on.
Oh what I would pay to be someone else
just for one day
so I could turn right around and beg to be me again.
You might have the balance
the footing
the wit, the smile, the ferrari
the girl, the job, the juice
but you'll never have the explosive wisdom
and dripping cynicism
that is the screw-tight lid to my rattling jarred rage.
You will never be the liquid high of my creation,
nor the sopping bliss of the destruction of my obstructions
You can't have me. You can't own me. You can't be me.
You will never drink the tap of misery as I have
and come back just to swill it about
and comment on the afternotes
and cheeky bouquets of betrayal
the hints of disaster, the motifs of rotting wood lodges in bourdeaux.
You won't smile when another blow comes crashing down,
or celebrate a day by burning it.
You will never lose piece after piece after peace of a jigsaw-wrong until there's nothing left
and still have to pass for human.
Now I want you to whisper this very closely to your earlobe
breathe this cautiously into the neck hairs of someone you hate
beg this into the space behind someone you just dumped a week's salary of seed into

You
can't
have me.