Passion for Weakness

Don't mistake my passion for a weakness

My passion is the largest, strongest attribute I bear.
My passion is what brings the world to my feet.
My passion is what brought you to my bed.
My passion sustains me.
My passion does more for me than you have.
My passion is what I live for; you I just live with.
My passion is what brought me to you.
My passion is what you love and what you will miss when I am gone.
My passion is heart.
My passion is my soul.
My passion is my mind.
My passion is what I have to offer and what I have to take away.

My passion towers above me, and

My passion is what I will leave behind

for
others
to
wonder
at.

I wrote that in, what my mother would call a fit.
These fits overtake me when I a’int lookin’.
They are sneaky little bastards of doubt and wizardry.
They *poof* in and *poof* out of my mind and leave me looking through smoke and mirrors.

It’s usually when you laugh at me.
When I’m being swept away by some tidal wave of emotion, and you get that goofy grin that says that you are uncomfortable because I am being held in the grip of something that you can not understand.

These fits detach me from this world and send me floating in the dirty beautiful ocean that is my brain.
I am constantly baptized and sinful in here, in this great gray sea.
In here, I rise to the top like cream and sink to the bottom like a gutter-snipe (no, I don’t know what a gutter-snipe is, but it sounds so damn cool).

My fits are painful nonsense that comes from:

too much intelligence,
too much sugar,
too much TV,
too much training,
too much joy,
too much bad influence,
too much pride swallowing,
too much hubris,
too much success,
and not enough sleep.

Sometimes I can’t sleep for the fits.

Fitsofbeautyfitsofpainfitsofpullingovermycarandbeatingtheshitoutofthatguyifhe doesn’tlayoffhisfuckinghornandcan’theseethistrafficisn’tgoinganywhereanyway!

Fits of me. Fits of you. Fits of museum quality love.

Sometimes I feel that way.
That my love for you should be extracted from me and put behind glass.
Put behind glass to be marveled at.
Behind glass so you can’t touch it because it is too much for you; because it’s too much for me.

Let other generations look at it.

Sometimes I lose, what my mother would call, touch.

You’re gonna have to let me know when that happens.