my history

thought about
writing a whole lot of different shit
maybe the who, what, when, where, why
and how of it;
and discarded that vacant,
used-up bit,
an over-employed twist
of a whatchamacalit;
settled on laying down
most of my history,
including the parts
that heretofore
were more or less a complete
mystery;

but Hell's bells,
I'm an enigma to myself,
so most of that crap
needs to sit up on that shelf:
the one I polish,
but never touch,
the one I relish,
but not too much,
the one that tells,
but never fells
the truth tree,
the total expiation of me,
the one that quietly
sits in the corner,
all fucking Jack Horner,
with a bright purple thumb,
as if I might become
someone that you might
want me to be,
maybe just a little more free,
more than locked up
in an old cast-iron bathtub,
making a Viagra commercial
to endlessly run on the tv;

so, anyway, the truth is
that my history runs back
as far as the is is,
back to the beginning of
what was me, what is me;

and frankly, recounting it
is way more than I can handle
like lighting a fuse
with a one-inch candle;

suffice to say,
there have been many roads,
some of them populated
with angels,
and some with
toads;
but not one damned thing
in all the songs that I could sing
would mean one damned thing
about how much I love You:

my history, my Dear,
I relive with mostly fear,
and I pray every day,
that most of it is never repeated,
except for the good parts,
the ones that were superheated;

I've done some bad,
but I think mostly good,
and who I am today,
is how I want to be understood.



June 12, 2010, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.