I remember the night I graduated from Olympus Mons Military Academy.
I remember what my father told me,
the "one hundred percent true story of the creation of mankind."

There was a being who lived on Venus, all alone he lived, so alone he wasn't even sure he was living. This being had no name, but they had a heart that beat and a mind that thought.
He lived on a Venus that this universe has never seen, nor will ever see. Space and time are fabrics, but even the finest of linens have space, impossibly small amounts of space and within them universes. This being lived on a Venus woven into the fabric of time itself.

This being prepared a torch,
fueled by matter the likes of which humanity knew, but has forgotten and will never remember.
He lit this torch and carried it through the fabric of time.
He spoke to beings there about time and he did not like what they thought of time and so he took the torch elsewhere, abandoning the others in a perfect nothingness.

He took his torch to Mercury and asked the beings there what they thought of space.
He did not like what they had to say about space and so he left them in their chaotic abundance of space.

Dissatisfied, he traveled to the furthest edge of the universe and looked Beyond. He asked the beings there what they thought of space and time.
They did not answer.
He asked them what they thought of existence and they told him to stop speaking.
They asked him what fueled his torch and he refused the answer.
They grew angry and decided to try and strike a bargain.
They told him they'd reveal their thoughts on time and space if he reveals what burns his torch.
They told him time is only within his mind and that space is a projection thereof.

He fled.
He fled to earth and dropped his torch there, and it burned to the center of the planet.

He returned to the fabric of Venus and thought for an impossible amount of time and willed time and space to cease and yet he could not.

After, he willed himself to cease existing and he did.

His torch stopped burning with him and humankind was born from the ashes, they crawled from the center of Earth and wept for their creator.

I asked my father what this meant and he told me to stop speaking, and asked me what fuels my torch. Once I answer that, I will understand.

The old man still visits and he tells himself he doesn't care and he figures that lying to oneself is something we never really grow out of.

Some days he knocks on the door and altogether realizes he does care, he cares so ******* much and his chest begins to hurt and he leaves before she can answer.

Other days he knocks on the door and lies to himself and waits for her to answer. She does and they exchange pleasantries and she invites him inside for tea. Most days he'll stay for a glass and leave without incident. Making his way home he remembers how much he cares and vomits all over the bulbs on the sidewalk.

Some days he cares entirely too much and stays for a second cup of tea, only to torture himself. These are the days he takes twice as many of the back pain pills before going to sleep.

He looks in the mirror in a state of sedated discomfort and wishes that he could not care, he wishes he could lose the ability to feel, he looks himself in the eye and says "you're an old man, caring is for the young, vomiting is for the young, searching for a rock you threw into a creek and feeling some way, anyway, is for the young."

He's not entirely sure what he wants, what he prays for (to nobody and nothing in particular) but he knows he wants and by god he knows he prays.

And so I'll like your selfie,
and I may send you an encouraging message.

Digitalized and marginalized
you exist upon a screen.
To me and my solipsist mind,
all that is real is all that is before me.

All that is after me is fiction,
something I, and millions of other poets may attempt to write,
but realness is lost.

It can be compared to trying to relay a first hand experience to another,
it is impossible to do completely.
I can tell you that the trees swayed nonchalantly and that the water was crisp and welcoming but you will never know what it was like to be on the lake that day.

If Jesus Christ himself were to tell me change my ways...

Put the music on repeat,
put the *** in the pipe,
pull the covers over your chest,
put your tongue inside my mouth,
and wake up,
I will do the same.

The thought of you,
the idea of you,
the digital image of you and everything you've said to me excite different parts of my body.
All these things excite my mind.
Your words excite the blood vessels in my cheeks and your body excites my groin.
I drink a tall glass of water,
I ******* thinking of you,
and I fall asleep hoping to dream of you.

I dream of you putting your tongue in my mouth.
My body excites in my slumber,
and though I only kiss you in my dreams,
I ******* in my shower.

I'm a mountain man dreaming of the desert,
and you're a Midwest girl dreaming of the ocean.

I want to feel your legs around my neck,
your hands held in mine,
and your tongue in my mouth and around my ****.

I want this of her and her and him and her and you but I cannot have it.
So I've masturbated 3 times today and if the son of God told me to change my ways I might need to ******* twice, thrice more.

I started playing guitar when I was 14.
I didn't take it very seriously until I was almost 17.
That's when I made time for at least an hour of guitar a day.
Now, six years later, I literally play about eight hours a day when I can.

My exposure to playing music before guitar was the Piano, but I rebelled when it became forced. That's just how I roll. I'm grateful for that musical icebreaker, though. I want to get back into playing keys. For now, I'm focusing on making the guitar into even more of a playground.

I use a 150-watt Ibanez Tone-Blaster head on a 4x12 cab. It's on the clean channel with the levels at 5 and the Overdrive on, with a gain of about 4. The hue is cranked, though. Gotta love that brightness.

I have a Boss ME-70 multi-effect pedal.
I must say, those types of things are great for sampling different sounds, or having watered-down versions of lots effects available at any time. But, if you find one tone you really like, you're best off buying or building the individual pedals to provide you with a higher quality version of your preferred tone.

Anyway, I have the hall reverb at about 5, and some 'classic' overdrive set to 5 for level, tone, and gain. That's all I need. I sparingly use light chorus or uni-v, or maybe a wah for certain parts. I believe simplicity is best in terms of effects.
Although, tasteful delay makes an alright solo into a ****-dampening solo.

I have many axes:
1 nylon 6-string
1 acoustic 6-string
2 Washburn electric-acoustics; a 6 string and a 12 string
2 B.C. Riches (Beast, Stealth)
an LTD KH-602 Superstrat
an Ibanez 'Artcore' series semi-hollow electric Jazz guitar
then, I also have a Roland Ax-Synth keytar.

In my opinion, guitars sound better tuned down.
So, naturally, I tried out drop-D, which was cool.
Then, I wanted all the strings to be lower, so I tried Eb-Standard.
I liked that. There was more body to the sound.

Of course, I tried playing in a drop-style tuning from there and discovered Drop-C#. This tuning stole my heart for a while. That is..
..until the voluptuous redhead D-Standard came along,
arms linked with her **** black-haired sister: Drop-C.

Tuned a step down, bends and vibrato are much more wild beasts.
However, this lower tension will trash your harmonics and stuff,
so I play 10-52 strings: 10, 13, 17, 30, 42, 52. Typically called 'LTHB,' or Light-Top Heavy-Bottom. This helps to keep the tension more similar to as if it were strung with normal strings in standard tuning. That translates into more overtones, which, in turn, means better tone.
More overtones means more pinch harmonics, too. Aww, yeah!

I need to get my hands on a decent electric baritone.
Maybe I'll just make one.

Oh, and another thing:
I just got some brass nuts. ;)

Leather bound,
lavish and
rough.
Turned through
stiff pages
with nothing on them
but dust
and curse words,

When I finished reading
cover to cover,
I thought I might
rip open it's spine
and destroy the whole thing
so that no one else
would have to.

That *******
first edition
****** *******
closed book
swallowed me whole.

Some days I wake up and I look in the mirror, and I look at the person staring back at me and wonder, when did I become the ghost of a shell of a girl? I remember when my eyes used to shine and I would look at my reflection when I walked by windows, thinking I was really something to be.
It's a little past new years, and I've come a long way from a year ago, two years ago, three years ago. Sometimes I smile and I light up again and I mean it. I really do. Some days I still fall back into the rhythm of numbness and I think about cutting ties with everyone around me because I don't want to drag anyone down with me.
Everyday unfolds in front of me like a mystery, and I guess that's the same for everyone everywhere, but when I wake up there's ultimately one question I ask myself, "Will this be a good day, or a bad day?" And the truth is I never really know the answer, no one does. Some days I can get hit by frozen rain and I brush it off because I remembered my umbrella and I was a little bit stuffy anyways and the wind feels nice when it brushes my cheeks. Some days It's sunny and bright and there is every hope for my future but I still struggle to form words and I can barely even hear myself when I say "You're okay, you've always been okay." There are hurricanes on my fingertips and if I stand too close to an edge sometimes I convince myself I will jump off.
I am healing and growing and learning and trying. I am a mess of perfections and imperfections, obsessions and discontent.
I am a warped record that once had something to say, but the sun and the rain and the moon have damaged me and I keep repeating the same lines as though time might change their meaning.
My room was covered in the names of the people who hurt me, changed me, broke me, so I stripped off the wallpaper and repainted my colorful walls with the dullest shade of beige they had at Home Depot. When I looked around at my bare walls I packed my bags and moved 800 miles away from everything that reminded me of his ******* acne scars or the way I almost broke my mothers heart. The desert dried me out and I am learning to look at sunrises again without hating myself, and I am rewriting stories on how to love myself even if I don't always feel like I should.
I can hold the hand of someone new, and feel something without drowning. I can feel wanted without being scared and I am even starting to tell myself that I am good, even though most of the time I do not feel very good.
I am learning and breathing and kissing and feeling.
I am okay, I have always been okay.

the clock is ticking and talking
to me with its hands around my neck
until my throat is bruised, black and blue
reminding me of past events, of past lives
(I have died three times)
there's a boy, another boy, and another boy
no
there's a wolf, another wolf, and another wolf
they all must have the same taste in meat
(young and vulnerable, marinated in alcohol)
they aren't from the same pack, but they feel the same
when they hold you down and devour you
leaving nothing left but a pile of bones
(and a lifetime of paranoia, trust issues, bitterness, panic attacks, depression, rage, therapy bills, suicide attempts, hospital visits, scars, addictions, alcoholism, low self-esteem, family estrangement, failures, eating disorders, and the ever-present feeling that I am being watched)
-

would you take me with you?
before the snow comes
and my schedule freezes
because college will be over
and my days will start to mold
again like they always were
when drunk kisses at the
bar were better than a
lovers because passion
was always absent
can't help but wonder, why is that?
the past is gone and nowhere
near good or rather closer
to evil and shedding
layers like seasons
breaking even into
new embraces that leave
traces in aches in the places
where skin was on skin was on
skin just get in and begin to make
the future look positive when imagining
your blue eyes trapping my insides
twisting and wishing that you'd only
twist more gather into me gather
my hair into your fists oh how
I wish that this mist wouldn't
clear for a year maybe two
what to do? I am blue
and you are green or white
perhaps dark or perhaps light
I really can't be quite sure
you're a blur
dashing
my hearts a plane
crashing into the side of your mountain
mesh with my molding
don't stop holding me
folding me into position
I like a man with a mission
maybe it's the wrong lake that I'm fishing
because there are plenty of fish in the sea
those fish are too big and not as tasty
to fry, tough guy, big guy, just
say hi and stay high with me
one two three don't **** with me
I just want to sing melodies
keep living my fantasies
walking together with
you through the night
grabbing hands it's
alright and I just
might not let go
so quickly this
time because
the warmth that I'm feeling
is that of a heathen and
your advances are chances
at passionate romances
you're a magician
I'm an enchantress

better to be silent
than say words
that are brittle
and break
under the
weight
of their meaning.

existing without living
waking and breathing
in short spurts of pain
too ***** to be touched
picked and scabbing
bleeding into dinner
kissing into sleep
choking
pushed away
love this is not
lust preserves the rot
my heart's in a knot
if only I was taught