Skip to main content

8 years on...

8 years on and I still miss you.
8 years on and I still think about you.
8 years on and I still think of all the good times and bad.
8 years on and I still laugh at your jokes.
8 years on and I still tell people funny stories about us.
8 years on and I'm still mad as hell that you were taken from us.
8 years on and I still cry and get depressed.
8 years on and I still think of you on your birthday.
8 years on and I can still see your face.
8 years on and I can still hear your voice.
8 years on and I'm still trying to move on.
8 years on and you're still the annoying little bird on my ass.
8 years on and I still feel the terror.
8 years on and I still miss you.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

TRIBUTE BANDS: The Dubious Art of Selling Somebody Else's Identity

Anyone who knows me in any way knows my stance on so-called "tribute acts". They're bullshit. I, like any working musician, have played other people's music. It's kinda how being a working musician operates. My classically trained musician friends routinely perform the works of the great composers; Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart, etc. Anyone who's played in a bar band in the past 60 years has probably played at least one song by The Rolling Stones or Chuck Berry. Nothing wrong with that. Never has been. But at what point did folks switch from doing covers to paying "tribute" to another act, essentially creating entire commercial enterprises built around imitating the identity, appearance, sound, and presentation of established performers (aka FAMOUS BANDS)? OK, say you really, really like U2 ( I'm sure someone does ). You know that you're highly unlikely to reach their level of success. So, you do the next best thing: pretend you ARE them! Y...
Post a Comment
Read more

САМ В МРАКА

Здравейте, приятели! Ето за вас още една зле преведена история, мое дело. Идеална за сезона на Хелоуин! Приятно четене! - MM Беше му студено. Това поне знаеше със сигурност. Мускулите му бяха схванати, сякаш бе спал накриво върху неудобна повърхност. Главата леко го болеше. Бавно отвори очи. Докато зрението му се опитваше да привикне към сумрака, в ума му изплува една-единствена мисъл. „Къде, по дяволите, се намирам?“ Първото, което забеляза, беше таванът. Пожълтяла мазилка, напукана на няколко места, с тъмнокафяво петно, разпростряло се от мястото, където някога вероятно е имало лампа. От дупка близо до средата висеше късо парче електрически кабел. Лежеше върху гол дървен под. Дъските студенееха под гърба му, а във въздуха се носеше слаб мирис на влажно дърво и стар прах. Под него се долавяше и друга миризма, едва забележима, но несъмнена. Застоялата, землиста миризма на нещо, останало затворено много, много дълго. Бавно се подпря на лакът. Стаята беше малка, може би три на четири мет...
Post a Comment
Read more

He gave his life away...

He gave his life away. Most people thought he was nuts, but no one ever said he was stupid. His own family knew he was different and just didn't view the world around him the same as others. He simply wasn't interested in the status quo.  He'd been homeless. It didn't bother him. He'd been wealthy. That did bother him. He dropped out of university after growing tired of arguing with professors - and winning. He didn't see the point in spending money for that particular piece of paper. He figured art was a better investment. He inherited a house. It became his prison. A life sentence. His family figured they would be able to keep an eye on him this way. Only one problem; he was rarely home. He was busy giving his life away. Minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. Whoever needed him, his talents or his time - he was there for the asking. He was usually surrounded by the mentally ill, the homeless, or characters considered unsavory by most decent people; pimps,...
Post a Comment
Read more