By D.T. Robbins
Jackson Browne said these days he's doing more walking than talking, but I want to take it one step further—I want to pour concrete over my mouth, walk into flame, eyes wide and head high and chest out and… goddammit, that’s a lie. I’m sorry.
Let me start over…
When was the last time I cried? Face painted wet under blue skies, pleading with angels.
When was the last time the earth carried me? Caked in dirt and play and promise.
When did I quit trying? That drive from madness, beautiful, into a golden horizon.
When was my mind last quiet? A chorus hopeful even in dream.
When was the last time I woke up proud? Don't answer that.
When was the last time you could look me in the eyes? Don't answer that.
When was the last time I cried? Heavy-laden, eyes bloodshot and guttural and godly.
I could use a good fucking cry. A cry to drain every drop of sorrow and shame and guilt and horror and echo and void and yesterday and always and nowhere and nothing and the weight of it all and the weight of it all and the weight of it all and the weight of it all and the weight of it all and the weight of it all and the weight of it all and the weight of it all.
These days, it's hard.
D.T. Robbins is the author of several books and founding editor of Rejection Letters.