I weep for you, my fallen prophet – you whose inner demons continue to haunt you and drive you toward the path of chemical oblivion that overshadows the best parts of you. I weep for you, not because of your casual betrayals, but for the gentle boy within you, lost, scarred and unloved. What wounds do you carry so that your appetite for self-destruction is both an act of retribution and redemption? Does the pain you inflict upon yourself a punishment for you or for whomever it is that you harbor anger against? Or are you escaping some harrowing part of you that only the haze of substance alchemy can erase? The copious tears you shed – does each drop signify a recognition of your helplessness, or are they pining for that which you have lost or never had? Fallen prophet, you confound me.
There are times when you become this man with dark secrets and whose eyes have seen too much, but there are moments when you become the boy you were once, pining for a toy you could not have. Then these two images combine, and like LEGO parts that scatter into thousand pieces, you are reduced to this mockery of what you could be. The poverty in your heart cannot be erased by the wealth that is now at your disposal. Your own private world of excess cannot seem to compensate to the dearth condition that cripple and gnaw at you long after the pangs of hunger is satiated.
You have no idea how much your words have given insight to me. You have no idea how much your random acts of kindness are gentle rebukes to my jaded, cynical heart, and yet still, you have no idea how much I fear the inevitable result of this path you are hell bent on following. Your fragile, sensitive soul cannot take much more of this damage. Something will give, and for this, I weep. Wake up from this perilous stupor!
1 Samuel 1: 27-28
There are times when you become this man with dark secrets and whose eyes have seen too much, but there are moments when you become the boy you were once, pining for a toy you could not have. Then these two images combine, and like LEGO parts that scatter into thousand pieces, you are reduced to this mockery of what you could be. The poverty in your heart cannot be erased by the wealth that is now at your disposal. Your own private world of excess cannot seem to compensate to the dearth condition that cripple and gnaw at you long after the pangs of hunger is satiated.
You have no idea how much your words have given insight to me. You have no idea how much your random acts of kindness are gentle rebukes to my jaded, cynical heart, and yet still, you have no idea how much I fear the inevitable result of this path you are hell bent on following. Your fragile, sensitive soul cannot take much more of this damage. Something will give, and for this, I weep. Wake up from this perilous stupor!
1 Samuel 1: 27-28
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