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By Ali Date: 2007 Nov 02 Comment on this Work [[2007.11.02.13.44.11706]] |
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I've written all my great poems about you (and some not-so-great ones, but let's ignore that fact, ok?)-- isn't that funny, like the kind of tingling pain that creeps up your arm when you've whacked your funny bone on some sharp corner you suddenly forget had always been there? Yes, it's kind of like that. Everyone always warns you about too much excess-- too much of this or that, or that other thing over there--well, it'll kill you, or maim you a little, or leave you limping or crying, or simply emotionally wrecked and mild-to-moderately aloof. Love, like alcohol, does strange things to your thoughts, overtakes your body and whatever measure of 'good senses' you assumed (foolishly) that you possessed-- and you're utterly powerless in the face of your own metaphorical bottle. They say it, clearly, and many times over. Sometimes, you hear it shouted angrily, or it's whispered secretly. Over and over, and over--they tell you, too much of something will kill you. But, I don't know, I'd kind of like to find out for myself. |