Icarus's blog: "Augurs, Martyrs, and Agnostics"

I can't help the way I feel.
Today or any other day.
Up two hours too early.
Lights aren't on.
Birds are already doing that thing.
There's a brief, futile argument over going back to bed
or just eating breakfast that much earlier, and pretending all day that I meant to get an early start.
Breakfast was a soggy bologne sandwich with more spent on the mustard than the bread and meat combined.
A remnant of better times, and better tastes.
Dog wants the other half.
And she gets most of it.
After a little work, and some dusky, stiff tea.

I can't help the way I feel.
Like a plucked pawnshop guitar.
Fraying a little at the tight strings.
Pulled a little too thin.
Left a little hollow, and echoing in empty.
Heavy hands on a fragile frame.
Scratched up with character and hard times?
Good times?
Sold.
Bartered.
Bargained.
Or just forgotten.

Today was harder.
I wanted to tell you everything on my mind
everything in my heart.
But it was too god damn hard.
And I was too god damn scared.

Right, wrong, last time or this.
Don't know if I can stop it.
Don't think I should.
Not much I know
but I was built to hold
cradle
rest.

That's what I wanted to say.
In more words.
In more time.