Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god

Gone With The Wind

*Yeah I know what you're thinking. "Like the movie huh!" NO! Someone, however, wrote a poem with the same title that was about the movie. I took the title to meaning something deep.

My blood pours from my skin into the wind,
Taking a piece of me away from me,
A piece I was neglecting to care for.
I chopped off my hair and await a Friday
So's I can leave it at my great aunt's grave,
For respect, knowing the wind will blow
Most of that loose hair away.
Everything about me yearns to be
Gone with the wind.
When I stab myself,
I exhaled so strongly, I created a current all my own
And called it Indian Westerlies and got on with life.
I can't help it if I am this way,
Angered to a fault and mutter my hate
Into the breeze to be forever taken away.
I hope it never gets back to me.
My hair falls out in chunks due to stress and
I have more stress than hair on some days,
And more hair than blood underneath my fingernails on tomorrows.
I feel the need to exemplify myself
To a crowd of invisible people,
They are my true followers, my true friends.
But I knew a soul once, who'd yet to die
Who called himself jesus (not the Mexican name).
I called him jesus too and we ate hotdogs at the playground
While the wind blew our thoughts up to the rainbows,
And we heard silence shatter like that of a stained glass window.
We hold no regards for our idiocy.
We are just barely getting by now that we are
Gone with the wind.

April 21, 2004

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Gone With The Wind

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