Defining the 'Saint'

(Bows deeply, eyes narrowed in steely gaze)

Hello to all of you citizens of the literary city.
Might I ask a moment of time from you to permit me
my introduction:

I am SaintLee.

By no means do I describe myself an author.
Merely a man born from necessity into a world that isn't.
I am emotional it is true.
Paranoid to boot.
I wear my heart on my sleeve under a cast iron shadow.
Unable to carry the weight my namesake implies,
yet too weak to cleanse its stain from my soul.
Living in wonder and existing in doubt I soldier on.
Perhaps as a tale told by a muse long forgot.
Who knows for certain who we all are anyway.
Why we are here isn't a concern I share.
Now for those artists who paint life with words-
Expect my reviews to be short and to the point.
If ever they appear terse, understand this:
every single word has meaning and power.
I use them respectfully and sparingly.
Not as toys, but as points.

The greatest gift given to man is often the deadliest weapon-
with no preference to a master or amateur when hurled unchecked or without thought.
I take care in what I speak, write and do at all times.

No dear friend, I claim not to be perfect.
Certainly no 'Saint' in any definition or form.
I am not righteous, prophetic, nor conceited.

I hold only myself accountable for the things I say and do.
A higher level than most.
For in the end we all must offer up an answer.
Not just our life and how we chose to live it, but for the
things said during it as well.

I look forward to our interactions in this palace of thought.
Perhaps we'll meet and share a moment in time together.
Just remember all we are in the end is who we were-
nothing more.

Sadly, we're often less than what we could have been.

In answer to the derisive question asked by a white man, "Where are your lands now?"
With his left hand pointing Crazy Horse replied, "My lands are where my dead lie buried."

© Copyright 2008 SaintLee (UN: lostaschmoo at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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