Myth

Bringing your gold, victorian afternoonsWith ancient glory days, and unfortunate demises.
Your heart in a paper boat and set tilting and lilting in a puddle of mud.
And the world is just exploding all around you.
With fingertips dancing, carving pictures in each other's quivering heartbeats.
And all those books and words and sketches and songs
And inspiration out of sheer despiration...
I just can't do this anymore.
Crushing these dreams into glittering wine glasses and tossing them down another stream.
Why is it these words do not come easily anymore?
All these harsh, cryptic critics shouting exclamations and condolances
But at least it was there.
Not all this complimentation and blindness, this seeming, self-proclaimed genious.
Silly mirror images.
Absurd water puddles.
And credentials eradicated, always misdirected into these history books that make it so.
You ignorant figurines, you shouting idiots.
begging for the attention, and the wit, and the chance that you somehow brought yourself to believe you deserve,.
I miss condesendance, and supporting alrtuistic tendancies.
Somedays I just can't help but wonder if originality even exists.
So many centuries have passed, so many generations, so many people, thoughts, minds, eiphanies, invention,
Maybe it;s all been come up with before,
Maybe we are all just... copy cats.

5/10/09