Anti-Hero
You are not a monster.
You are not the painted up anti-hero I saw in this morning’s paper.
Those are not your brains splattered all over the library books.
No, your blood was left on your journal, in the crevices of your keyboard.
You would hate such an impersonal death.
I remember you.
You played indians and soldiers with me on the playground.
None of the other already tainted seven-year-olds would speak to us.
You taught me how to skateboard and how to smoke a cigarette.
I remember both of us hated the taste.
You didn’t have to get liquored up to whisper your deepest secrets to me.
You knew I hated the smell of your whiskey.
You knew I hated when you said you wished you were dead.
I remember you were alive
You are not the painted up anti-hero I saw in this morning’s paper.
Those are not your brains splattered all over the library books.
No, your blood was left on your journal, in the crevices of your keyboard.
You would hate such an impersonal death.
I remember you.
You played indians and soldiers with me on the playground.
None of the other already tainted seven-year-olds would speak to us.
You taught me how to skateboard and how to smoke a cigarette.
I remember both of us hated the taste.
You didn’t have to get liquored up to whisper your deepest secrets to me.
You knew I hated the smell of your whiskey.
You knew I hated when you said you wished you were dead.
I remember you were alive
27 mei 2007
- meld ongepast verhaal
-
Wanderer
maandag 28 mei 2007 01:13
...
damn
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