Hello my old friend;
I haven't written for a while
Because I haven't been able
To find words that have
Any actual meaning behind them
Sometimes I'm afraid
That I've run out of things to say
My stories have always been few
And while I most certainly
Have had plenty of experiances
There is no terminology
Strong enough
To display my passions on a page
Or my fears
Or how the pyres that used to burn
Throughout my body
Only seem to re-kindle now
When I'm pointing out
All the flaws
Of the decadent world
That we call Earth
I wish I could fully describe
The monsoon of emotion
That passes between
This new girl and myself
When she's happy with me
Or the manner in which
I feel like I'm bleeding to death
When I fuck things up with her
As I always have
And she turns away
But nothing of this
Is less then mythic in scope
And I'm running out of things
I can pull out of the
Cross-religious grab bag
I keep in my mind
All I can really tell you
Is that there's a grinding pain in my gut
Whenshe is not near
And when she sits next to me
For a late-night conversation,
At Denny's, of course,
I feel as if I'm floating
Through the endless void of space
Yet strangely comfortable
At the same time
I hope you enjoy yourself
There in New York
Cohen tells me
That there's a lot of music
Someplace in that city
Called Clinton Street
And I hope you are keeping
Out of the cold
Your Friend;
Matt Magus
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