An old friend invited me to his lake house, surely to get away he mentioned.
A dock leading to a pristine lake, not a ripple in sight. He left spare keys on an island table. Said he would be back in a few hours, apologized, and instructed me not to go into the boathouse, something or other about it being repaired. His headlights hit the home and by the lake until it hit the gravel ahead. I walk to the pier to get a better view of the lake. To smell whatever it is that you smell at times like these. The pier is maybe fifty feet. The boathouse is at the end towards the left, not exactly hidden by shrubbery, at least not maintained in a few years. Surprisingly the door opens easily. Light is scarce. Water is beneath. I'm not country nor wealthy enough to know that not all floors are solid.
A switch is to my right. It enluminates a workbench. Tools are absent, besides some rope to tie boats, I suppose. Instead it is covered with pictures. All of a boy. Possibly seven. I'm intrigued, delighted being a lie or an embellishment. Many photos are taken at this location. On the pier or besides the house, as others are taken at places I'm not familiar with. There's a photo with a boat, the boy is sitting and smiling, saying cheese with as much force as a wave. Under the workbench is that very boat. Flipped over, but still kept. I stand still for what seems like minutes. I'm walking toward the house pulling the door shut behind me. I make my way to the kitchen. Married couples always have notepad and dry erase boards hanging around. They did.

*I decided to head back to the city. The air here is too clean for me. Also, I went against your wishes and went into the boathouse. I'm sorry for your son. Your loss. I haven't touched a thing in my boy's room for six years. I keep the door shut. I'm afraid I'll drive myself crazy, ya know, just sitting on his bed and he runs in to grab and go. It's completely irrational, but so is burying a child. I know that I won't be all smiles when you return, possibly you as well after reading this, but I felt compelled to act and explain. Call me if you want to talk, I'm not sure I can give guidance on how to cope, but sharing stories is always good for the heart. All the best

Tile floor on my face and knees to my chest, I call for my mother, who happens to be in the same position on a bed. This dependent relationship started out being as easy as asking the man for a piece of his roast because you wield a fork and knife. Since the era that brought Y2K we were doomed. At thirteen you may carry some wits about you, but without a mentor there is a tendency for anger. A rant and a rave, or some wit coupled with rage.

Two planes crashed into two buildings.
New York City was in disarray. I'm buying a video game the day before I start high school. Thankfully I caught the news before the game was powered on. People jumping from buildings. A mayor covered in dust, turning sharply at the corner of each city block, being inquired by reporters and journalists. But a man that is as surprised as his city can only keep walking. Four years later people still grieved. Some never boarded a flight again. By that time I left school.

Seventeen was drugs. That led until twenty-one. Those are lost years, or ones I wish to not account for. The years that came back felt like before Y2K, a recession that was only going to become worse, and depending on which side won the battle would there be more bodies falling from buildings. Ignorant to an economy that was already set to topple over, I went to school with partial loans. Not as bad as iron shackles, but with interest rates that ensure the need for a second industrial revolution.
People can speculate.
Oh, what you know is ignorance!

There aren't many outcomes to this predicament...
Old bankers can be sealed in their vaults. An older generation can retire without worry. And the "Millennials" will inherit the workload of two previous generations.
No.
That is the last thread holding embellished dreams. Before the ignorant generation is attacked, let's say that what credit was in the nineties to our parents and scheming developers is what a full glass of champagne was before the Great Depression. But this intelligent, idealistic, young generation that is crippled from the start will not succumb to rationed goods and bread lines.

Department of Defense says you're going to die. That Government is too big to fail. And they're wrong. On more than one front. Their military is for us, but the corporations are exclaiming, "Charge!" How easily you can become a mannequin to a department store. How quickly a baton can break your forearm.

They say that the Statue of Liberty was once copper. They say over time copper turns green, from weather, and I suppose time. Yes, it's scientifically explained, but imagine a statue with only tarnish by the eyes. That might be the symbolism we need, but no, a woman made of copper does not cry.

So, thirty is approaching. Not within the next few Sun rotations, but soon enough. Many people my age want change. More than pocket change. We were raised on accountability and morals. Now being adults this isn't a "Do what I say, not what I do" argument. These are lives. This about saying, "Sliced bread isn't the best thing!" It's standing up for your dignity and integrity. Something that isn't found at a computer screen.
Maybe at one time it was.
Now the truths you speak are chastised. Capitalist societies adopted Martin Luther's Catholic Church. Now a notice on a door is sent to a screen.

Laying on this tile floor is tiresome. And working two jobs gets in the way. The hardest part is ignoring the demon involving work. Knees to your chest may be safe behind a closed door. But the outside world is monitored. You can only get up, kiss your mother on her forehead, hoping hers knees descend, and hope that finishing your work happens in time for you to create your art.
Hopefully that is something that can never be taken away.

Pathetic

The worm pinned beneath the claw of the morning bird,
Doomed,
No brain to realize it's peril,
Just automatic twitching
Back and forth like an equally wretched dog's tail.

The drunk homeless vagabond,
Too filthy for mere soap,
**** fights for supremacy of stench, With feces, blood and *****.
A human stain on society.
Nobody's father,
No one's son.

****.
Pull your skirt a little higher,
Her husband may not have noticed you yet,
Buy that man another round.
Where are your morals?
Lost with your self worth?
And you too stupid to comprehend that your emptiness cannot be filled by the ***** that you swallow.
Wake up wrinkled and alone,
No yoga pose is going to save you from yourself.

Me,
In your eyes when I show weakness,
Cry over veiled insult,
Admit defeat in the face of misery,
Depression.
Well I'll give you that,
What is depression anyway but a weak man's excuse to fail?

Pathetic.

You scream urgency
Like an accident and emergency
waiting room,
like a person relapsing into addiction,
Because they pushed themselves
too soon.
And there are claw marks in the soil,
Where you've tried to get to grips,
with solid ground,
There's a danger in your voice,
Like a lost child waiting to be found,
And you string sentences at a time
but no sound emits.
Danger, like,
Racing cars and frightened cries,
And there are holes in your back,
Formed by the lies,
You've been subjected too
And i wonder if i could use them
To breath life back into you.
I wonder if i get close enough,
If i could see,
The dreams and memories,
Before they turned stale
And congealed in your veins,
And left you entangled in the remains.
The valleys of your eyes,
Run wide and down deep,
And when you weep,
Your tears fall heavier,
Than a ten tonne van,
You're a shadow of the man,
You used to be,
And even your shadow,
Has deserted you,
Sought someone anew.
And your foundations
Are built on heartache and pain,
And those little tear ducts in your eyes,
Constantly rain,
But you you're in a draught,
All the love you've showered others in
Means you've ran out,
for yourself,
And your health is a picture
Of cigarettes and late night drinks,
Old whiskey, poured down sinks,
And you're reaching the brink,
The breaking point,
But you quite like the sound,
Of broken plates,
And you quite like the taste,
Of self destruction.
And there's a ghost,
Where you used to be,
Haunting the curves
Of your smile,
That you paint on,
Why you defile
Your skin,
This terror your living in,
Could start a thousand wars,
And this battle your fighting,
Inside of your mind,
Leaves a carcus, a morsel,
Of yourself behind.
Your insides stick to the past,
Like double sided cello tape,
And there are windchimes in your spine,
Where your bones should be,
And your heart on your sleeve,
Is clouded,
By red marks where you've sliced open your skin,
In at attempt to be free,
Of those demons, the sin,
For a new beginning.
There's toxic in your lungs,
And a noose around your neck,
Where you've hung your expectations
Too high,
And you're hanging by a thread,
And tying knots the further down you slip,
As you sip,
Another shot of courage.
But there's only so long,
One can hold on for,
And believe me I've been down
To the depths of hell and danced with the devil
On many occasions,
And the sheer frustration,
Of the attempts to be patient,
Are wearing thin,
Like the warm skin, that stretches,
Over your protruding bones.

Egotist, the master of the ego mist
or some ego antagonist
he is so much there
in the center of a web
of regurgitated fears
recycling pointless
the old cycles of
night after day
life after chaos
but no death
after ego inflation
just a rusty song
of imprisoned moments
or undeciphered gnashing
all character is just the dust
you cannot grasp
grey ruminations
curses wiggling
in times devoid of innocence
the cruelty of a ****
refusing to wither

at the end of his cigarettes
a speck of self
is threading a stratagem
to severe the ties
for the ******* of distance
so that he can continue
uninterrupted
to mutilate his heart

no one can persuade the night
into whitening
like you clean your teeth
of curses
the rest is sadness
the dew would know it.

But if our eyes could speak we'd say three times the world.

If our eyes could speak, then never again would we have to talk.

But if our eyes could speak, they'd tell it all
Of every ball, of every fall, and of every brawl.

If eyes could speak, we wouldn't have to talk at all.

my tears are very real
and in your absence they are made of glass
they cut open the strongest parts of my soul
and the wounds
they never heal
so i am forced to wear a mask

red stands for the blood shed when you beat me with your bare hands.
orange is the color of my hands when I try to get the blood out of the carpet.
yellow is the color of my eyes after endless hours of no sleep because I was afraid that you'd just **** me.
green is the envy in your eyes if I dare to even look at another man.
blue is the color that I was when your choked me until I had collapsed.
and purple , are the bruises on my body
pink is now the color of that old white shirt my grandmother bought for me
but white is the color of my new life