Help me, for I’m overcome; a sudden wish to die.
Just a couple minutes back I felt above the world,
But now I can’t sit down without that painful urge to cry,
Now her silken hair has flown, her loving arms uncurled.
Before the clock struck thirteen, I was sitting in the sun
In an innocent position built of humble gratitude;
Her breath beneath my beating breast, my cold heart overrun
With blissful breeze windmilling into settled solitude.
I’d end my life, that I may have that feeling once again,
That soul-fulfilling feeling of sensations unreserved,
In the blazen afterlife, above my corpse, above the rain,
Although I feel the once was more that any man deserved.
Approacheth he the meloncholy lass,
And asketh ‘Why art thou so sunken sad?’
Replieth she, ‘My mis’ry is a man.
‘Men are, I fear, a false and faithless band,
And shame on she who care not curse that clan.’
With this, the tears accross her cheeks began;
Dark pools made they ‘pon landing in her lap.
With sympathy, he sets down where she’s sat,
And says ‘A judgement most unjust is that.
‘Nay, black and boorish be not ev’ry man;
‘Say not so, save that I thou thinkest am.’
It’s kind of conflicting. There’s this urge to live, a fear of death that comes from all the beauty and art in the world, and the ultimate, absolute horror of never being able to experience it all. Your whole life, you’re trying to absorb all of these wonderful thoughts and ideas, and it’s never enough, because everything comes from something, you’ll never get to the root of it all; or else you’ll never be able to count all of the leaves sprouting off in the other direction. But then all of this art, it’s all in the past, why weren’t you here to witness it’s creation? You’re stuck looking at it all through a computer monitor. You can go to Paris and see the Mona Lisa, but there’s no point because it’s done, it’s finished, there’s nothing left to do. So we’re left to create for ourselves, but it’s useless, there’s nothing left to create, everything worth saying has been said. You think you have an idea and someone tells you how you’re part of some -ism and you realize it isn’t worth fighting for any more. People tell you that you don’t need art, you need love, and you need meaning, but art and love and meaning all seem like the same thing when you can’t experience any of them. So what do you do? You sit, you read, you watch, you listen, and your brain changes shape and your back starts to break and all the while they’re making room for your casket and it’s all getting too much… and then some sweet girl with a pretty dress goes and makes it a hundred times worse just by being there.
Why can’t I just be the same?
I feel no love, but feel it’s pain;
I cannot hear what she is saying
Though I can’t remember why.
I gave her up too willingly,
Her test passed unfulfillingly;
I speak the sorrow I am paying
To our love of days gone by.
Don’t people know my disposition
Is of mine own sad composition?
I act this way because I’m praying
Love will see my colours fly.
Damned lust, it has my spirit called,
Not just to get my ashes hauled,
But, while we are each other laying,
Sing our c’resses ‘neath the sky.
The sun comes forth through open clouds,
The mourners donning blackened shrouds,
And through the tombstones, children playing,
Laughing as their parents cry.
Perhaps it’s best to not remember
Then perhaps, come next December,
I’ll have forgotten what I’m saying
And watch those open clouds roll by.