Silence speaks volumes. So, this is perhaps a novella. But the quietness will still me for now. I feel your judgement and it weighs heavy upon me.
But in my defence, I have been sorely tested by the world and pushed to the brink. I have looked the tiger in the eye and not blinked (if that's what one does in such an analogy). And I am stronger. I am taller. But I have an Achilles heel. For some it's food. For some cocaine. Others alcohol. For me it's unattainable beauty. My name is Prince and I am funky. When it comes to funk, I am a junky. Or at least a Sexy Mother Fucker.
I am rambling. Wombling. Underground overground, wonbling free. But not free. But addicted to naked, nudity, touch and feel. See me. Feel me. Touch me. Heal me.
So many women. So little time. Five years ago I'd known but one. Now it's a number closer to my age. And I've lost sight of morality. I'm blind. Deaf, dumb and blind boy, he's in a quiet vibration land.
And they make me vibrate. Buzz. Hum. They alleviate my self esteem issues. I'm not the outwardly successful, upwardly mobile, go-getter you think I am. I'm as fucked up as the next guy.
I'm as fucked up as the next guy. I'm a fuck up. I hate myself and I wanna die. Ok, not quite the full Kurt, but I do hate myself, what I've become. Or to be precise me age 24 despises me age 44. What a saddo. What a user. What a middle aged tosser. Throws his money around to make the girls "love" him. A fake. A faker. Shoot me. Put him out of his misery. They shoot horses don't they.
And yet I am loved. But I don't feel worthy. I am abusing that love. Don't love me. See through me. See what I really am. Inside a festering black cancer. Outside Mr Happy Go Lucky.
Help. I need somebody. Help. Not just anybody. Help. You know I need someone.
