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Alex Hoffman Nov 2015
In the open space below the mountains
lakes and rivers, trees dancing with moss shawls and furry tips
the rolling breeze that bathes us into peace
Our surroundings that dictate our disposition

If we reduce it all to steaming rubble,
grey concrete and loud sharp horns
the peace dissipates
and though it is curious how we are affected from the outside in
if we challenge nature, we’ll never win.
Alex Hoffman Nov 2015
The smell of sour smoke

the long sword of devotion
to the welcomed lack of air
and the promise of quick happiness

to the burning leaf
we’re all the same
one brain
to eliminate the threats from
our mind, the burning leaf
the boiling smoke, and calm sensations

Day proceeds to
night where the desire is hot
sun up or down,
you’ll always smile when the burning leaf is
around only until you deplete it

empty your pockets
the leaf demands loyalty
your life demands stimulation
the perfect pair for addiction
without accountability
it was you who lit up
it was she who was there for you while you did
your best
intentions are subjective
But all falls smooth to seduction of the burning leaf.
To M.J.
Alex Hoffman Nov 2015
It’s a cruel death, the death of hope.
a fire where breath expands the flames
from oxygen of depression
comes carbon dioxide life,
difficult to swallow
with rusted lungs

In the mayhem of inspiration
The fuel burns as the motor idles.
hot to the touch
everybody evades.

The signals we’re sending
a question of life in a black shawl 
a cry for help
lost in the rush of early-morning traffic
Too tired when we get home from work to even care.
Alex Hoffman Nov 2015
Raised on instant gratification
rewarded for *******  
spread out on our screens
society based on ratings

Like bad movie critics,
we send mixed signals to artists
confuse our creatives
and give pleasure to mediocracy

We’re old souls
in new bodies with prosthetic limbs of plastic and glass
extensions of our memories and minds
we’ve built a reliance on them

One day when the sky cracks in half
satellites will fall from space
we will all be crushed by
The fruits of our progress
killing us slow.
Alex Hoffman Nov 2015
My own eyes betray me.
They fight down any chance of peace.
I approach you as a friend, and they ******* into foe.
Scatter my handshake into reproach.

I promise, my intentions are clean
Even if they give you ***** looks.
If there’s one person you can’t trust
It’s that ****** that sits at your emotional steering wheel.

He looks like you
Dresses like you
Sounds like you
Everyone thinks he IS you.
He’ll take any ******* chance he’s got to drive you into brick walls
And bail for you to take the blame, 

Nothing but a dopple-ganger
Trying to justify the actions of a psychopath
Who stays out of sight
I’ll always take the fall.
Alex Hoffman Nov 2015
You spend your whole life walking towards the edge to look out over the view, and when you get there, it is nothing but white air. And you fall into it.
Alex Hoffman Nov 2015
I didn’t want to face the harsh, true words of The Voice or put the energy in that change required. I wanted to drown in my ego. I wanted to flip through my social-networks, my validating Facebook page and perhaps consult better advice from my mother. But I knew that he was right and what needed to be done and I was prepared to do it… I think I was. But a good friend once told me that writing is painful and I believe now what he was saying more than ever. In order to succeed I needed to **** the part of myself that for whatever reason believed that I already had. When you cut off your willingness to learn, you cut off your fuel source for which to produce. It isn’t humbleness—no, humbleness suggests that you have produced good work that you must now be gracious and small rather than tower over the meek peasants that grovel below you. What a ***** word. No, you have to know you’re bad. Push each key down with a sweeping uncertainty that flows forward in effortless delight and carnage. You have to be bad. You have to not care, not what they think but what that chattering, high-pitched buzz of ego and “sensitivity” thinks about you, and especially what it thinks about your failure. You’ll have to get used to that. You’ll have to do strange things that are not quite immoral but resemble something close to opening the gates to a dark alleyway of confusion of despair, then going down it on purpose. Sitting down in this alleyway, among the muck and rats and denigrated newspaper, this is where you do your work. So long as the words flow and the mind continues to unravel, you will have the patience and satisfaction to make this your home. Cold, dark and ugly—it’s your life and it’s beautiful. Some see it as a selfish pursuit, but what a funny opinion that is to see from down here in the dirt. I’m sure in some ways it is. But it is also a sacrifice, the offering of a letter written in blood and shards of broken spirit and signed off to the bleeding youth of tomorrow’s heroics. They’ll be the one’s to save the world, they will think as we thought and they will be driven to make sacrifices of their own. But not without a little word of advice from the now stinking-bodies piled against the dumpsters in the alleyway soaked in the fog of time. Not without my advice—or at least this was the thought that kept me burning. Perhaps also why some choose to draw razors across their arms, to cut to the source of life and un-dig the hidden meanings and answer a few of the questions that keep us alive. Even if the answers are not buried here, and we know it. It is enough to dig, and find the bones of other diggers that have died in the sun of their own hole, their skin melted off and liquified but absorbed by the sand. Having their company is enough, in a life of strangers. It is a friendship that extends through time because it is timeless. It is The Voice in your ear that tells you to keep going, and knows that somehow it is worth it anyways.
On writing.
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