My Escalade — is Noble —
Eight Sparks — it goes at Will
Its doors — the gates of Excess —
Forever roll — the Rims

More room than Heaven’s mansions —
No Hyundai dare approach —
Toyota — under my Wheels —
Honda — left in Smoke —

Fuel tank drawn from Oceans
Of Oil from whitened Sands —
When rolls the Cart Triumphant
No conscience tug demands —

High above — the Masses
Far beyond Critique
All shudder when I Steer her
I am — the One Unique

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In other news, I recently broke three of my nails on my picking hand — badly so.

This means I’m finally learning to flatpick, at least as a temporary measure.

Funny how small a difference in motor skills can be so difficult to master.

Sometimes, I don’t think I’ll ever write anything again because I’m feeling so burned by the reaction to what I’ve written before that I’ll be second guessing myself forever.

This isn’t entirely sparked by the earlier controversy here, though it certainly applies. It’s just another general observation about me and my big goddamn mouth, my inability to breathe before I write, my insistence on being right over being a caring person.

I know who I am, y’know? I know what my intentions are, what I feel. I’ve been in therapy too many years not to be self aware to a fault.

It doesn’t give me the license to be so ruthlessly blunt that I hurt people I care about.

Most of the time, I hate myself. Sometimes, I just find myself bewildering. It leads to the question:

Am I more truthfully depicted in the eyes of others than I am in my own heart?

I hope not. I hope so.