I'm tired of trying to come up with a song lyric to title each post. (For those of you wondering why they were such random headers.) I may throw one in here now and then.
Anyway, I wrote a poem. It's not very Christmasy, but I only get hit with these bursts of thought every once in a while---usually while driving, and it's only a draft. But I wanted to share because it's my blog dammit and where else can I put this stuff?
The Idealist's pain runs deeper.
He bleeds longer.
Yet never runs dry.
The stem of belief.
Born of the marrow,
and sprung forth from the black hole of optimism.
He speeds off like a toddler, paying no heed to skinned knees—
confounding schoolyard bullies with words,
and tearing down establishments.
Don't try to tend to his wounds.
You only end up with blood on your hands, and he…
only then does he feel it.
God bless us, everyone.