---(+ Holy Buffalo +)---

"Love" in the shallow essence of words
is selfish and sinful and packaged in hurt
for when hand comes to hand it will lead to the touch
and when push comes to shove it will all mean too much

If you live on a wall there'll be nowhere to fall
no "what if there's love?" and no "when will he call?"
but with logic and theory so constantly near me
how can a paper man cost me so dearly?

Despite the insistence that one is enough
I cover myself with paper cuts
just to manifest stress primarily
in vain, in love, insanity

"Love" in the frantic mess of the mind
means many a problem no man can define
for I have the key and I keep it with me
in a black leather book far away from your eyes

Less of the room with the shrink and the blinds!
Upstairs in the mind, everything's fine
So persistent are you to discover a meaning
you'll ignore what I'm for to ensure that you're gleaming

"A man's not a man when he's only a sheet!"
But the 'man' that I 'love' in the Land of the Free
he is high on the hill, a star in the sky
a human illusion, he's barely alive!

"Then call him a lover, then give him the earth
but have the gun ready for Hi Power Hurt."
He'll never be love, he's merely desire
And if he hurts me - I'll set him on fire.

For when hand comes to hand it will lead to the touch
and when match strikes the pack I have loved you too much
pat to face is your way of rewarding the liar
So when you hurt me - I will set you on fire.

Paper-thin man... Good metaphor. Gotta remember that. Nicely written. Awakened my thoughts. The text's pace was nice, and gave good rhytm, a gently flowing, almost trance like feeling to it.

Why so pesimistic Buzz? You probably have reasons...I can't relate to this anymore, not since a year ago...

(Edited by Amor Fati at 3:51 pm on May 4, 2001)

This poem was written about six months ago, for feelings I had over two years ago. It's not me anymore, it's just my attempt at dealing with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

I am not a pessimist: just (as my counsellor put it) "too smart for my own good".

It's better that way.

I really don't think it is. Not when I think of all the unhappiness that has come from it. So what if I write a good story or two? It doesn't come anywhere close to balancing out.

I meant it's better to be too smart. Would you rather be ignorant just to spare the pain and unhappiness?

In retrospect - yes I bloody fucking would.

I wouldn't. I've tasted depression too, but I would rather have that, and then know how to appreciate the great things that happened to me, than be an ignorant and let everything pass by me.

I'm rather smart and know much than believe to be living in a better world than I am. At times, it hurts like hell, and adds to my already big pile of misery, but I'm still trying to hoard more info and thus more pain. It's the price to pay, and sometimes I wonder when I reach the limit of my currency, but as for now, I can still go on. But to each his/her own, I guess.