tired, at the anvil
finished 8 January 2003 (started in spring 2002) copyright © 2002-present James Sanghyun Han (a.k.a. steal this and DIE)
| as the hairs above my upper lip and on the corners of my chin grow darker, thicker, faster as B vitamins whittle excess flesh away the experience starts to show and the glow of self-confidence adds a hint of a promise of something more desirable than the former soft naivete why it is that age has given a sort of beauty that was missing all throughout when i wished it the most why it is that men fall only into my lap when i was thinking it would be always bare and free why this irony i try to forge into steel iron into steel steel so cold that i shiver and bow my back to keep the warmth in somehow as the hairs at the corners of my ever-lengthening forehead fade lighter, thinner, faster as the flesh below my eyes sinks in the wear begins to dominate puberty has left the office, satisfied with the work it has done for me to settle into another stage of my allotted time why it is that Prometheus was the wise one when it's always been hindsight that's given me Wisdom why it is that my eyes must lose some of their warmth why must my laugh must lose some of its joy when i forge my irony into steel iron into steel steel so hard that at the end of the day i feel so sore and i whimper in defeat as the welting bruises on my continually disillusioned heart grow more tender and more numerous as dreams bow down to the waking the experience starts to dull and the spark of optimism and intellectual wandering goes only to give way to routine and money worries why it is that reality must ruin my ideals when before it was only used to shape them into goals why it is that i now feel the wear of icy time why must my humor have less warmth and more bite why does my irony only get forged into steel iron into steel steel so frightening that i polish it constantly in a vain effort to retain some of my shine and it sparkles in the light but the glimmers are cold and argentine and i yearn for days when i merely sat by the fire warm and hot-cheeked smiling and smiling unsure and fat and the Prince of Naïve but with the world at my feet an anvil at my disposal and nothing to forge |