I'm progressively getting more and more grey hair. Despite this, two consecutive days in a row, I have found myself compelled to write what can only be described as <shudder> poetry. Have I regressed to being a teenager again? And why do I insist on disrespecting a valid form of artistic literature by implying that poetry is only for juvenile, immature, angsty, little flakes?
I suppose it's because I've got to let a little bit of the evil out. If I just let the evil guy have a taste, maybe he won't find out my true aspirations, that these words would become lyrics to songs that one day I hope to record... maybe even let someone else listen to some day! I can't have the evil guy finding that out, so if I give him a little something, maybe he'll go away.
Maybe he'll let me have this little hope, just this little bit of hope, just for a little while.
And suddenly I'm remembering the Fisher King. Ever see that? Maybe I don't want to get into what ways I can relate to that movie, but after I typed all that out and was about to end this little rant, I remembered a specific scene very similar. Please, let me have this.
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