Take into consideration that I've never
hurt an innocent man, but I've been known
to be less empathetic than most.
Counter that with an intuitive sense of *******,
calling it and speaking it, mind you, and you
will start to relish in the quiet nature of a
man that is fully invested in his environment.

BUT

What do I know, if I don't act.
Blame age?
Say that I'm young and I will learn from my mistakes?
Completely feasible, but it will only hinder development.
Blame yourself, I say.
Call yourself on your *******.
Know that your instinct should be followed through.
Get the feeling and act on it, however,
hold it in,
and everything goes to waste.
Your instinct becomes ****.

The room: never aired out.
Smoke hung high, creating its own atmosphere.

Pun intended.

Box of cigars sitting on the coffee table, always within reach.
Glass ashtray to smother your butts, when a forearm wasn't intended.
Burning flesh, each circle telling its own story of a mistake.

That's why I prefer long sleeves.
They hide my stories
about Grandfather's house.

The day you taught me how to cross a street was
the first time I remember my anxiety.
Lungs expanding, mouth shut
and seemingly everlasting.
Pulse rising, brow moist,
too young to know the innuendo.

"Look both ways," you said.
And I did.
At the time I listened to you,
your words; guidance bestowed
upon me, not only because of your
responsibility and obligation,
but because of love.

As time went on,
it was easier to disregard
your words.
I would look both ways,
and after a while I knew
you weren't behind me.

After a while, I was glad
that you weren't.
You never took my training wheels off,
because I had never rode a bike,
but I learned how to cross a street.

I would look both ways,
cross,
setting my own direction.
And when I learned to
ride a bike at twenty-two,
you still weren't behind me,
and I was drunk.

Wind in my face,
eyes closed,
light shining through
my eyelids.

With closed eyes,
you can't look both ways,
or appreciate the innuendo.

I killed myself.

A Tuesday. Fresh cut grass, the smell welcoming, as if to announce Spring and rebirth. Then you think of Hay Fever and laugh at the simplicity we hold for nature. Leave it. Don't branch off. Knock on wood.

I coughed on a stranger. It was unintentional. My apology was sincere, as was his vulgarity. Made me think: This ******* probably eats with his mouth open. Food flying. Spit soaring. An intentional imbecile. To be noted: If I see this man again, I will sneeze on him.

Fast food is absolutely disgusting, but there is an occasional craving. When you lift the top bun of a cheeseburger and it gets stuck to the cheese. That's all I have to say about that. The quality of the food has put us in a pickle.

I'm tired. I'm sure there is a mattress salesman close by to sell me a dream. What is my most comfortable thread count? Futon it is!

I haven't killed myself, yet, but I've died a long time ago.

But, dying and killing yourself
aren't one in the same.
The dead walk.
Ones who ****
idolize permanence.

Hating yourself
was familiar to us,
but I wanted
more.

Clock in with a swipe. Slash of the blade. Prefixed, eventually to become routine. God based routine. If any routine at all. Slash of the blade. Ring of the bell.*

We knew the Blue Marble was Hell. We created Hell. We needed it.

Time progressed, the swipe no longer needed; detached and vulnerable, time became an entity.
No one had time to swipe.

The axis the Blue Marble spun on, circulating, cultivating, breathing.

How does a marble breath?

How does a marble die?

Parasites.

We created Hell. We needed it.

A power struggle between animals is natural.

The exception is ego.

We lost eco over ego.

We created Hell.

And I needed it..