He’s tired of the stares and the glares that have been (mis)directed or (mis)given on his part or her’s or even someone else’s. He doesn’t have shares in those (in)frequent stares of whoever’s mind’s own making.
He’s tired of that dreaded twenty-four. He hates that silly plaza in Barcelona with the letters after it’s name. It’s as if the letters are some kind of scholarly stance. Yet no English Professor and no Doctor of Medicine obtain a degree enough to watch him so close, as they do in that old plaza.
He’s tired of the cards and he numbers. He’s tired of the four by six. He’s tired of the address, the connotation; “oh you’re from there, so I see.” He’s tired of that frame, that user name of his. His tired that their eyes won’t see any further than this.
He’s tired of the social cues. His inner is exposed and his outer is misunderstood. It’s all mixed around, it’s turned-around with a pair of bright eyes and who feel a total eclipse of the heart.
He loathes bloody T.J. Eckelburg and those characters who lie and act. They defend themselves as if they were spying for somebody else. He wants them to be upfront and stop confusing him with names and statuses and pseudonyms such as Thomas Parke D’Invelliers.
It’s about the words he says now. It’s not even the music- it’s not the sound nor the genre they fit into it’s certainly not about classification. It’s about the word that should not be seen or read for anything more than it is.
The way they see it is a fickle fashion trend that changes as easy as the breeze.
He prays that his eyes would be enlightened, and made truly bright.
As he kneels, unwatched he humbly asks “would you let me see the world behind your eyes?”