My blue eyes
can't save me
Don't argue with a flame. It burns not by reason.
"what you wanna do, kill somebody?"
I want to rise
From your ashes
Remember Camus' The Plague where the poor bastard (and I don't remember his name, which is fitting) who was writing a novel and never got past the first line? How Virgonian. Within a matter of a dozen words or less he'd spent and spoiled years on rearranging and replacing words which no one EVER read.
Better to face the arrows of outrageous fortune and burn that diseased town to the dusty coastal ground than to fret over words that dying people will never read. Better to write it on the walls misspellings and all than to disappear in a contemplative state of silence.
They told me that the native Americans (that amorphous and amalgamated group the we called indians in elementary school) have a ritual titled calling the wind where one stands on the empty plains or at the edge of a sandstone ridge, some place picturesque, and with arms wide screams from the bottom of his belly to the tinny edges of his sanity. A cleansing scream
A call to the wind
A desperate escape from reason
Passion is fire
And words without fire are cast on deaf ears like pebbles thrown at fish
So don't fight a fever, feed it
Don't stifle my anger with comfort,
With a plague of reason
Don't touch me when I'm screaming