Writing sub par at best, playing the same chords, never enough time, knowing too much, being too fucking smart but playing dumb~ playing the part, feeling perhaps defeated this time, no one wants to hear the truth so we simmer on with the fake parts and sweep the shadows deep, perhaps yes there will be someone real enough to see it, to challenge me, to have the staying power to want it... you ever see the transparency of people's actions and play along... I hate that, playing along with that. With the fakeness, or the deliberateness of their choices as if it's all by chance. Of "you're so hot just let me get inside" as if the conquest were something new. It's so simple, it's always so simple. I will never be just a vessel for someone, who hasn't the slightest idea how to open their heart, to see me, to hear me... Perhaps that's why I have been alone so long, alone with the sea with dancing and plucking a guitar out of tune, running, finding the solace in music, in words sincere, in the sunsets, the silence of the mornings I steal on this island where it is just the fishermen, holding space with the skyline. Writing truths that I never publish but instead write the poetry. Someday I will reveal it all, the truth is, the truth makes people terribly uncomfortable, and most would rather live in their ignorant bliss. Me, I want to feel the immensity of something real, worthy, something so true the gravity of this naked shouldered desire to reach into the infinite well of redemption and find something real...