I write things after disaster,
I'm writing before I forget
Or regret
Or dread my intention.
I'm writing this about my past.
I'm writing this at the last possible moment.
Yes, it's the last moment.
And the last is like the first.
I was trying to run.
Run! Oz, Run! Said Oscar.
That man who danced through life.
Choegraphed by manipulation.
Oscar.
The man who wore a mask.
Not that anyone's ignorance is a problem.
Said Oscar,
He who wanted to be great
until the task was too great to fulfill
and so we ran.
We ran, then I flew, leaving Oscar behind.
Best choice fate ever made.
Well I know that now.
They say be great.
Do great.
Look great.
But when I tried, I only wanted good.
I wanted to be good.
I want to be good.
Because good is not great.
Because great is lonely.
Oscar was never good.
And Oz is great.
I was in limbo. And it hurt.
So I tried to run.
Fate whisks me away from the land which
was mine.
The mask or floating facade.
Which was mine.
And drops me in the waiting arms of agony.
Or is it fate again?
The storm was less painful the first time.
Maybe because it's what I asked, the way
out.
I was trying to run.
I'm writing this about my past.
For I dread my intention.
And regret.
And I'm writing this before I forget.
For I write things.
After disaster.
