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 |  Writings from 11/02 to 3/05. |
| 12/27/02 Lost in my memory are days worth remembering. I was a fictional character, striking poses to be photographed and reviewed in Maxim and Playboy. A subject of documentaries on E! All news all the time. Now my bed is where I dwell; my past my methadone for overcoming tomorrow, deep in the heart of days gone by. I was a fictional character; a rock star, womanizer and cheat sitting in church on Sunday praying for Saturdays of forgiveness. I wouldn't hide if you let me but you never did. I should've died cuz you let me, but I never did. I was a fictional character, true as a blue sky living in a world of clouds. The next great hope followed by the next great hope and so on. I was braiding life's rope in order to climb away. Locking myself up; hoping I might be found. I never was. I became a fictional character; a legend with patented star mystique and a vicious dreamer with a visionary's soul. And soon I was only remembered, reminded every time my ears ring. "He was a good friend. He said it's 'the end'." Warhol painted me on soup cans, and my fifteen minutes were up. In that time I gave birth to fifteen of you. Now I'm a fictional character and a father of fourteen plus an exact clone of myself replicated from my DNA and housed for 8-1/2 months in Mother Nature. Two weeks early and still never quite on time. You don't realize I never went anywhere, yet you claim it's changed. I say it's all been said before, and differed by staying the same. |
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