I Hate How I Don't Feel Real

As We Grow Older I Always Think, Why Didn't I Do More When I Was Young, Why Didn't I Risk More?

Real Writers Write Because They Love To Write. They Don't Write For Public Acclaim.

No Mat­ter How Much I Try And Hide This, Bit By Bit, I Start To Fall Apart.

Think Of A Rock Polisher, One Of Those Drums, Goes Round And Round, Rolls Twenty-four/seven, Full Of Water And Rocks And Gravel. Grinding It All Up. Round And Round. Polishing Those Ugly Rocks Into Gemstones. That’s The Earth. Why It Goes Around. We’re The Rocks. And What Happens To Us—the Drama And Pain And Joy And War And Sickness And Victory And Abuse—why, That’s Just The Water And Sand To Erode Us. Grind Us Down. To Polish Us Up, Nice And Bright.

If Death Meant Just Leaving The Stage Long Enough To Change Costume And Come Back As A New Character, Would You Slow Down? Or Speed Up?