Bring your whole self, that’s who I thirst for:
the abandoned lover I can write a verse for,
the rebellious muse I can write a song with,
the exuberant drunk I can sing along with,
the rough and the raw, the real and the riotous
the fullness of life that hearkens the quietus.
Those writhing innards and ragged edges,
those growling sulks and ridiculous pledges
to do what you want, and fuck all the rest
those unformed desires to be the best
at something, anything, aspiring to life,
aspiring to struggle and wrestle and strife,
to be completely alive, senses heightened,
at once so courageous, excited and frightened.
To surpass the mundane of looking and leaning,
to live with a purpose, to find the meaning
of every last fraction of every last minute,
to play the game hard, to seek to win it,
or in losing to know that the learning was made
the growth was absorbed in the way that you played
with intense, unrelenting, free-for-all giving,
your atoms vibrating with the music of living.


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