The Wrong Things
my therapist told me I should listen to the music,
if I don’t she may really leave your mind altogether
perhaps if the wrong things didn’t intrigue me,
I’d be a much happier human horror story.
For it is true what they say about the human mind,
we are our worst enemies and tonight I hold a gun
a sweet silvery sleek sensual shaft of pure assault,
waiting for the right moment, the best meaning.
When the right time comes I suppose I will reflect
on the effort I made to find my way, and in a fit
of unGodly laughter I will probably expire at the moment
I come to terms with how happy I was when I misfired.
Funny how motifs begin to lay the groundwork for where
exactly our soul lands in times of turmoil. Seems every
word that comes to mind wants to bury me further,
perhaps the ground is still soft enough to trip and fall.
I know when I wake up from this nightmare, another will follow
increasing the anxiety that every notion in my mind suggests
will always prevail with a certain audacity and horrific stage,
otherwise how else might a creative mind find some new outlet.
I was told once that I do like to live on the edge, the fence, like
Simon & Garfunkel’s amorous love for darkness. I am the man.