My Confession in Prose

My Confession in Prose

One day or another it was going to happen, so let it be today. I'm tired of indirectly trying to lead you to my insides through broken verse and mishapen song. I have to be direct now it seems; with you and myself, and I do it prose because I can't hide from truth any longer.

I've been searching for love all this time, never knowing where it could be, or how it is made, or how one obtains it. No matter how hard I've searched and how far I've lead you to follow me on my journey I've never been able to coax it out of me nor have you. So, I'm direct now, or am I misleading again?

I've looked at everything, across information's highway, and through the people I've met and many more I've met from afar, watching their actions, trying to dissect their ways- but still have come no closer to finding anything that resembles them in myself. From the highway, I've searched every esteric and erotic thing known to man and have felt nothing from picture, image, colour, or sound; from illusion to disillusion, there is nothing that has stirred anything in me.

Sure, my white hot comes from me now and then but it passes by without thought to whats really present. I feel genderless and sexless without a drive to call a home. Nothing to move nor distinguish me in a power driven world.

From violence to peace I've searched, perhaps love was found in pain I once thought, and couldn't stand the blood unnessecary, and in peace I could not find any pace or romantisism to stir affection into stagnant and thrusting lust.

Oh, I've done it now, with shaking hands on plastic keys, I've spewed it all out for everyone to see again (and I thought a confession would be longer. But like a climax, it's power is perhaps in it's quick and concise nature.)

Now to think: how to change it all?

-Matthew Koutzun