Blues and the Self-Possesed Bastard that I am

When I was about 12 years old or so, complete with jean jacket, mullet, and the general feeling that everyone was an asshole, out to get me, and completely misunderstood me, I was saved from my destructive behavior by my grandfather and his amazing aptitude for guitar playing. He introduced me to blues music, which at its rawest and most expressive, is just a few chords and a phrasing of lyrics that at first listen are quite repetitive-however it is what most music lacks- it is TRUE.
What is true in my life? That's a question that is not as complicated as I would like. It would be easy to shrug it off, complaining that's it's too difficult to wrap my head around-so lets smoke a cigarette, take a pill, watch t.v., or whatever mind-numbing exercise I could engage in to forget about the act of scaring the shit out of myself by actually taking a long, deep look inwards.
The truth is the expression I'm seeking by writing this should be a reflection of the things I see and the way those things make me feel, and perhaps somewhere in that pool of bullshit some kinda beauty might float to the surface, and within that moment some serenity could be scraped off and maybe stick around a while.

Reborn and realized

In my younger days, experience was a word that encompassed all things " cool. " After reading books that were deemed somewhat subversive and generally considered to be off ill impression- I believed that if I put myself in harms way, that i too, could gain experience, and in doing so, could obtain " cool. " But, " cool " much like " beauty " is not just in the eye of the beholder, and regrettably also unobtainable. It seems to be something you stumble upon, more often than not, something you stub your toe on. Today, I am experienced. Today, I am cool ; in the dirtiest, down-trodden way possible- and I love it.