A Room For Vulnerability
You can’t “sleep off” crazy. I don’t smoke weed, so I doze off three shots of Smirnoff daily. My dreams seem to trail off the tracks and I’m wired like spokes and I’m tired like maybe I could use a rail of coke. These days I rarely hear speech. I carry ’round a grudge like I hate bad cops. Put notes in a bottle that get soaked since no matter how hard I tip the glass to provoke that last drop, it won’t budge. And there goes the ink. And gone goes the good. And gone goes every want for me to do as I should. I’m haunted by the obsession over my needs versus the want for me to flaunt all the possessions of my greed and trying to get over what’s not understood. I’m a man on stilts. A plan meant for action can’t be designed off stills. A giant in a hole big enough, with a soul on a crutch won’t budge if he hasn’t got the will. And a taller man just needs a shorter rope. Clinging to the ledge and I’ll jump if friends think it’s a joke. Again with the notes. And then there’s the tears. And then another night spent stooping and I might just coup myself up inside my room with some beers. But in the end I just want my family and friends and my sanity, a Benz and my vanity to subside or to spread. Why can’t it be pretend? I wanna build a fort. I wanna jump the bed, I don’t wanna fuck for sport, but of course in the presence of other men that sorta makes me sound weird, but my dear, nothing I ever do is forced. Romancing a stone. Storming a rock. They keep telling me I’m soft, but it’s just to absorb the shock. My hearts on my sleeve. My arms in a sling. They’ll give you all you need but you’ll still want one thing and I’m not sure what that is anymore. My ceiling is your floor, I built walls and forgot room for a door.
- Bryan 'be.' Espiritu