Martyr

Maybe, it's as simple as that smell of rain that permeates the Portland air the very second I stepped outside the airport.  Maybe, its the majestic view from the balcony of that hotel as I drunkingly stared at the Vegas skyine.  It could be that moment I realized I was surrounded by nothing but the calm waters of the Pacific.

All those memories cling to my senses as I realize some moments can never be duplicated.

I'm sorry for the person I presented myself to be.
I'm sorry my crown of thorns was just a figment of my own imagination.

Everyone wants to be a martyr.

Sometimes, I drive past that larger than life house where friendships were cemented, where ghosts stumbled into the kitchen slurring the haunting words of love me.  I imagine that the new family that now occupies MY home probably couldn't care, probably staring at their own family albums without a clue that a ghost is weeping at their good fortune.

I'm sorry for the moat I securely built around my castle.
I'm sorry my defense mechanisms caused me to turn a blind eye.

Everyone thinks they are a martyr.

Jesus is the punchline.  Mother is the joke.  The devil plays the harp on the shoulder of the weak.

And I am just a martyr.

The people are staring at a man as if that man is king and as that king fiddles, those people are on fire.  I imagine Rome was burning as her people were asleep.  Slumber couldn't come much sooner for the martyrs who thrive in their own dreams.

I'm sorry I spoke my mind on a sunny Sunday afternoon.
I'm sorry I served kool-aid during your communion.

Everyone wants to be a martyr.

Maybe, it's the smell of rain that permeates the Portland air or the majestic Vegas skyline.  It could be as simple as drifting across the Pacific where loneliness steers that ship.  It could be all those moments I can never duplicate.

I am sorry for the deceptions that brought me to my knees.
I am sorry I am not the martyr...

I presented myself to be.