Before I Forget
Here I am, where I’ve been
I’ve walked a hundred miles in tobacco skin,
And my clothes are worn & gritty.
And I know ugliness,
me something pretty.
I was a dumb punk kid with nothing to lose
much weight for walking shoes.
I could have died from being boring.
She greets me every morning.
At the most I’m a
I’m the hopeless son who’s hardly there.
I’m the open sign that’s
I’m the friend you need, but can’t be trusted.
Its so empty here. There are people here, who bustle about from hovel to hovel, like ants carrying the strangest items in some attempt to prepare for a disaster that will never come. Paranoia is served every morning here along with a side of anal retention. So many lives, well engineered pieces of shit, and imported bottled water dancing in a well coregraphed hustle to the rythym of "hooah."
But its still empty.
There is no reflection here. Like a vampire in a bad 80's movie, we are there, but not.
What is here, are rocks. Lots of wonderfully jagged and ankle-twisting rocks. So plentiful and each one unique with a personality and character all its own, like retarded snowflakes. I think that this country, in all honesty, has more rocks per square foot than any other place on God's green earth. Seriously, you can't throw a rock here, well...without hitting another rock. Rock on rock crime is a big problem here by the way. The Igneous rocks have a long standing grudge with the ultramafic rocks on the east side of base. Its a cultural thing I suppose.
Rocks have been here for awhile, and apparently these upstart Afghan's, as they like to be refered by, call this place home. This land belongs to the rocks. No one else should be here. There is no water, no shade, and no foliage suitable for adequate sustanance of today's livestock. So why in the Hell would anyone live here? Honestly. Its like how when some one tells me they are from Alaska, Arizona, or Canada; I'm like "Why, it sucks there."
Home is where you make it I suppose. So home for me I suppose is here with the rocks. They are not the most gracious of hosts, but they don't seem to ask too much of us, their guests.
Squatters in an empty land that belongs to no one but the sun and inhabitable by no one except the children of pressure and time. So it is that little by little with lots of pressure from the idiots who run this place, and a year of time, we too become like our stoic hosts.
Unique, boring, and unfeeling. Retarded snowflakes.
And I know ugliness, Now show me something pretty.