wdpckr71

08.14.03

She can't make up her mind, she won't make it up. She just sits there, a
blank look on her face when I ask 'who'. The dreaded who. But I know
that awnser, its written in the tattoo on her hand. Her past is who, and
that dosn't hurt too much. The damage had already been done months
ago. From small and finely arched lips the crule words 'of your too nice
to me, too good for me' cut through my heart like a dull breadknife,
jagged and tearing. Again I can add another to the list of rejections with
the mayrter like reson of 'your to good for me'. Again the nice guy
finishes last. Why did I ever endever to become this, a nice guy? Several
years ago I was far from that, far from being kind and caring and loving.
I didn't care unless there was anger, unless there were rocks in a spoon ,
unless she cryed my name to stop. It's at times like this I feel like a
chump for giving up that life for the one I have now. But then so it is
with broken things with bruised hearts. Again I'll stand up and go out to
the places where we all stand and wait to find the match of the moment,
the night, a lifetime. And I'll try to cross the expance between woman
and man, try to find a conection, try to find a clue as to how to talk, how
to relate over the noise and confusion of the band and the bar and her
getting close to intoxicated mind that blurs the lines of me, her ideal,
and her past. Oh there could be one, one who feels the deapth of life in
her soul, but most likely she is too far away for me to see. Hell, the bar
is quite dark even near the stage.