Charlie Brown and Music

Just like I wrote December 8th, 2007 I am still the Charlie Brown of the music world, or at least in my world.

When I got home I had to run to the gas station shop to pick up some meds for my step dad...and while trudging in feeling and smelling like crap, I searched for the right pills and had to ask the girl behind the counter where they were.

Then the kid behind me asked how my band was doing.

Obviously this brought me up short.

Turns out he was one of the kids that I substitute taught last February BUT he was also one of the kids at the last 'concert' I performed with Tubbs and James under the moniker of 'Forgotten Purpose'.

Now, obviously I am not used to having people seem to even care about my personal endeavors, much less random teenagers, so I did what any other self respecting idiot in position would do...I lied.

I said things were slow but good, that school and work had us all tied up but overall we were good.

Why do I keep clinging to this fool's gold? This false idea? This absolute idiotic idea that it matters?

News flash folks! The dream is dead!

If I can be pretentious enough to quote John Lennon:

"The dream is over
What can I say?
the Dream is Over
Yesterday
I was the Dreamweaver
But now I'm reborn
I was the Walrus
But now I'm John
and so dear friends
you'll just have to carry on
The Dream is over"
-John Lennon, "God"

It's over.
The party is over.
I was a washed up, never was musician about the same time I became a washed up novelist.
It is all a load of bullshit I tell myself so I can sleep at night.
I always have the dream of maybe getting to play with friends again, make music, write songs and try to make a difference. The idea of writing words can somehow affect people and help them.
It is lies.
It is over.
Good bye.
Get the hell out of here now.
There is nothing to see.
This is just a walking car wreck waiting to happen, so pass on by because I do not care.

Some Days

Some days I just hate life.
This is one of them.

I feel so alone.
The distance is killing me but not as fast as I am.
Every half lie wrapped in a false breath.
The shadows play across the room
like a bad cinematic.
Every word you say
I quote to you,
just as you think to think
to say what you think you think
will make me happy
and placate your mind.
Not to mention your ego.

But, what do I know?
What can I say?
I would rather just rest right now,
in whatever shades of pain I have to embrace.