Be it a rock or a grain of sand, in water they sink as the same

I'll make it through. I have to. It's required. Perseverance. And ability to persist, overcome. Aren't I able enough? I need to say "yes." A resounding answer to a wavering question. Proof. Of something. Yes. The lights blink and we're in Vegas. 41 points. A maniacal laugh. Disbelief.

Placating. Bleeding. Friction. Pressure. Bruises. Pain. Unbearable. Born. And there are lines. On my wrists and on paper. Short and song-like. Grim, angry poetry. Like beat. Generation. Berets and goatees. Ginsberg and Kerouac. Suspicion, speculation. "Is this me?" It may or may not be. But I'd rather it was.

I want to know how you felt about me before you shared feelings. Yes, even the bad things. No, especially the bad things. That's the best of it. That's the material that you can trust as being real. That's the stuff that possesses actual, tangible passion and emotion. That's the information I'm after. Not the dull, commonplace complimenting and gushing love.

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