Untitled

September 1, 2003

Purpose doesn't even have any meaning,
in the carved life I've made with labor.
The fact that I've brought up the wetness
and colored it with all the blood in me
makes it less obscene and more vulnerable
but useless and wasted, all the more.
I'm still trapped inside a crushing
and tormenting luscious rainstorm
smelling the ground turn wet and cry
as the smile comes back to my lips.
A crash of thunder and a scream at me
in the early morning of commitment...
I'd buy this life out to see the other side.
I am ready to see what else there is.