Today,
This pen took orders.
"Write them."
It wrote that.

My face smiled when I wasn't happy.
My legs knew they were tired but didn't stop.

I remembered to straighten my tie.
And wash my hands.

I got abused and didn't give any back.
I wanted to so badly.

I didn't hate anything today.
I wasn't happy about anything today.
The hell kind of day is this?
The hell kind of day is this?
Is this a kind day in hell?
Is hell just like this?
trapped in ice.
Like Dante's devil.

In my little notebook I rambled about other stuff I didn't feel today.
I don't have to list it.
I can.
Quick.

I tore out some notebook paper.
Blank.
Burned it.
Made a wish.
For anything.
Just now. I listed it. I gave up gave in.

To feel anything.

Even tired.
Even sad.
Even angry.
Or furious.
Make the djinn make my heart burn,
if he can't crack the ice.
Let's melt it.
Even the pain would be something.
Even a little hurt would keep me going.
Remind me I was still going.

You're like a match at night.
The dusk settled.
It's navy blue out and I can see okay.
I see something on the other side of the little yard.
That must be pretty,
I think.
Then I strike my lighter.
Hold the flame between me and anything.
That pretty thing.
You drown out the world.
Your light. fed by the wind.
Trying to blow you out.

Oh god this makes me awfully anxious.
I'm writing this in a floor seat at a huge theatre.
There's all these eyes around.
I know they don't care.
Not about me.
The ****** in the blue suit.
Tearing away at a notepad.
What if they do?
What if the couple behind me is catching
every other word?
It makes me smile.
The danger of it.

I go there,
I just gotta make my head stop working.
You thrash yourself hard enough.
And it does.
Must be the most sensitive gym rat around.

Or maybe that's why we're all here.

I couldn't come before.
At school when it was all going...
Well it was going.
I tried. But why run when
You aren't running from anything.
All those joggers are being chased
Those guys pushing up heavy bars
Are pushing away something terrible.

It's not the weights that are tearing us apart.
It's the weight you dan't drop.
That's falling so hard.

You can forget it's there.
We're like alcoholics.
And crack heads.

I don't feel it in everything yet.
I'm staring at these flowers being thrashed
(gently)
by the wind.
And for all my metaphors about winds of change
and being violently thrown around.
I don't see it the same.
I keep waiting to really
Feel
That connection.
Appreciate the universality,
the totality
inherent value of life.
But it isn't here yet.
I need to get out.

I don't know if I can keep it.
But right now I'm suspended in happiness.
The air is thick with it.

I found that place I was just talking about.
Even my letters look less frantic.
The words still fall out.
But slower now.

The other stuff came out like *****.
I was,
(am but not now)
Sick.
A sick mind has to write like that.
Fast.
Each word running away from the last.
Like they're trying to lift off the page
before they become part of a letter
left to tell why something terrible happened.

It may be the eye of the storm.
But still.
It's so beautiful.
And still.

The wind is blowing gently against me now.
Yeah,
It's still out there.
A storm I mean.
I can almost hear the far off howls over the crickets.
But the crickets,
I like them.
The soft light in here, I like it.
Like the orange glow at dusk.
Night might fall on me soon.
But the orange light is so gentle
and the air is so cool.
It feels like only better things can come.

I'll have to make it.
I'll find a little cabin by the lake.
Have some animals.
Goats, chickens.
A cat that prowls around.
And a dog that lays down.
I'll have a little gym set-up.
Free weights and places to hang.
There'll be a fishing pole.
With a box of lures.
Every evening I'll pull out
that box.
And pour over it a while.
Loot at all the lures and
dream of enticing new fish.
Then choose the same one as yesterday.
And yesterday's yesterday.

There'll be a little dock.
That's where I'll have my lawn chair.
And a fishing pole holder.
So I can write when I'm not watching
that bobber bob.

I don't know what I'll have to write about.
Everything will be okay.
It'll be a beautiful life.
Lived on a beautiful day.
That's setting.
Bringing a beautiful,
quiet, night.

Maybe, if I can't write,
I'll stumble off the dock
and check on my lure.
Give it a tug so my fishing pole
thinks there are still fish out here.

I'll hold my breath.
And appreciate this other place
that's mine.
The light rumble of windward waves.
The silence of everything living there.
And how like them I'm quiet too.

Not silent. Even in my dreams
my head is full of the trouble
I'm wading through now.
But maybe,
When I'm finally there.
My head will be empty.

Sinking slowly
Then shooting up.
All without a thought
to make a sound.
And spoil the beautiful,
underwater quiet.

Had to stop. The color outside
Drew me.
The air smelled like a lake's.
And I begged for the water again.
That's gotta be the next step.
Find water. Float under it.
I gotta see it. And smell it.
The dying light of the rain.
It makes me feel like
Dust floating.
A million different pieces.
Thinking for themselves.
Held together. Happy like that.
The water makes me see lines.
Connections between things.
I wrote about that in my little pocket book.
Flowers thrashed in the wind.
Didn't care.
Wanted to.
Maybe I can. Floating.
Looking at the water.
Maybe paradise is a the shore.
Atlantis. Happy. Underwater. By water.
I can see it.
Lawn chair. This book. Me.
Smiling or
Too happy to move my face.
Just laying there. Sun. Orange with the evening.
Sunglasses. My granddad's.
He can see it. I can see it.
Found it.
Paradise.
Fresh water. I'll fish in it.
I can run down and swim.
Far. Or float.
Not feel nasty when I walk out.
Let the sun bake the water away.
While I figure myself out. In here.
Paradise I'll go.

That is a horrible pen name.
I'm not a Frank.
I'm all thin, and gangly, and erratic.
I came up with that when I was
signing up for this website.
I couldn't put my real name.
I'm not a writer.
In a few years the people I work with
At my real career, won't understand
all this.
I'll keep these months to myself.
Burn this journal. Delete this account.
Put up a bunch of terrible peices.
Get offensive. Trash talk the
Couple of people that followed me.
So in the totally off the wall chance
anybody cared about what I put on here.
They won't look for me.
If anybody asks they won't answer.
Eventually, I'll have to Be as much of a
secret as the ones I keep.

Maybe that's over the top.
This is all about learning about myself.
But from what I know so far I wouldn't
push people away.
Or hide myself.
If somebody finds it.
Asks me, "Holy hell were you crazy?"
"Yeah but I'm better now."
They might not understand it,
But I think that sounds so strong.
If you've totally snapped in half
And you can recover.
Knowing how to put yourself back.
If you did it once,
If you're capable of it
...
I want to say "you can take anything."
End it there.
But that isn't true.
I couldn't take killing a bunch of people.
Or selling out someone I love.
I don't think I could handle prison.
Or staying out of school.
Or not doing something that makes me feel
like my paradise is following me around
Hovering like a cloud.
I have to know my limits.

If you know what went wrong.
And if you know what made it feel so awful.

Wait.

I need to use "I" instead of "You."

You didn't do it.
I did. I did it and if I do one
**** thing differently it's to think
and admit in the first person.
I need to hear the echo in my ears
of my own voice
making the excuses.
I want to start seeing those memories
- Of silencing the alarms
- Skipping classes
- Ignoring textbooks
- Stumbling around drunk.

I want to start seeing them myself.
I write this and I'm starting to.
I'm not living them like I need to.
But there's a lot to come to terms with
Before that.

All these goals and I can't write under
my real name yet.
This isn't finished. I know there's something missing in it.
Like the message isn't complete.
But it's not to anyone.
It's for me.
I feel like after all this rambling I'm
Still not understanding what I wanted to.
I have to end it.
I'm burned out and I'm done for now.

...
To myself as I walk out,
"Yeah,
Her son the waiter."

I think I could handle being without her.
Even in the middle of all this.

I'm standing on a road.
It's late evening, no middle afternoon.
But it's dark.
There's a thick white fog.
There's a little oval,
Of visibility.
Dark green grass on either side.
It could lead to woods, but the fog is
So thick I can't see any trees.
Just, maybe?
A mixing of shadows that turns the fog gray.
It has to be Ireland. I keep telling her we should go.

I'm standing there
With a warped face like I'm dying.
There's a heavy
                 rusty chain.
Wrapped around the tubes on top of my heart.
There's no one pulling it.
But I'm afraid they will.
And the weak tubes will melt
                                            rip apart.
Still.
Nobody's pulling.
But the weight is constant.
I'll get used to it.
Then I move wrongly
                       abruptly
And it swings.
And it aches.
And I remember
The pain of
What's killing me.

I'm standing on this road.
And I don't know what I'm gonna do.
I could walk.
With that swinging chain.
Or wait for a car to come.
I want to tell you that I want it to
Stop. Have someone rush out full of
concern and scoop me up lovingly.
Save me.
But the fog is awful thick.
I know it is,
And I'm standing here waiting.

The City. It wants you.
It was this, unrequited love.
But then you're a transient.
With all these dreams
Nobody around you wants as
Much as you do.
Then from somewhere
In the black of the theatre
New York shoots into your head.
You can't shake it.
The City wants you.
Like Jesus on the cross
It says come to me I'll save you.
These people want what you wants.
Come to me I love you.
For all your faults.
For all your hate and
Your cutthroat attitude
I forgive you.
I love you.
Let me help You,
Help You.

I can write the tired away.
I can out write the anxiety.
I can put down the words faster than my
head can put together, crazy, non-sensical,
yet nonetheless horrifically painful
possible scenarios.
I can beat it.
And be happy.
In the throws of my madness
AC's right
Insanity is painful
But it hurts to fight it.
But you can write it back.
I can put down all the horribleness
So it can't grow and **** me.

Save me.

After she tells me
She can't do this long distance thing again.
I'm too worried, angry, sad.
My heart's getting poked apart by an icepick.
I'm picking up my uniform to start
as a waiter tomorrow.
I didn't finish that letter to Paul.
I know what his reply will be.
Get on a plane. Get out of there.
Pack your ****. We will not lose you.
Get out of there. Get out.
But I can't send it.
So I'm lying there
kicked aside,
the pillow I was pretending was her.
And I just start thinking about
What paradise is.
I'm anxious all the seconds
I'm not something worse.
But I know there's somewhere
Where it'll stop.
It'll feel right. Like this is the
Way ahead.

I'm trying to build a window.
These aren't metaphors.
I'm not calling some empty headed person,
A beautiful vase with nothing to fill it.
I'm trying to say exactly what I see.
Rhymes, alliteration, technique are
Accidents.
These words just spew. I can't
Stop my hand
It's like a dull knife in the middle
Of butchering an animal.
It's barely controllable.
God knows if it'll go up or out,
If soon it'll cut me.
I like all this madness of action though.
It's almost a sport. Your heart
Doesn't race
But your head vibrates like it is.
You quiver and struggle to
Plan faster than instinct.
But are constantly reminded
That the whims of nature
Are so very out of your hands. Like this pen

I am more free now than I've ever been.
Money, time, the horizon stretches out.
But.
If I had wings,
It would feel like they were set on fire.
More than clipped.
I'm not thrashing. Like
A cut bird would be.
I'm frozen here.
The air is bubbling and I can't breathe.
There's barely bone left to walk on.
I could maybe stumble. Get a job
Daze through workdays.
But my head is frozen. Thwacks from
Bats. Shrieking cracks coming through.
I can't think Everything is so
Blurry.
The thwacks aren't rescuers.
They're not breaking me out . They're
Waves crashing on me. Adding to the
Ice.
Every piece of mail,
"Have not met our
Academic Standards."
And I am deeper in the sea.
They're so many whistles to go up.
Friendly porpoises saying I can still go
Up.
But the waves are pulling me
Down

What supports
Crushes.
The beams that hold a ceiling,
Bear down on the ground.


This was gonna be a whole yin-yang thing.
How I got squashed by the inverse of successful habits.
But **** it.
Most of it was fun.
It only got bad when I tried working too hard.

I need to be a real person.
Not some work-aholic
Alcoholic machine.

God this is hell.
No I can't see the light at the end.
But if I don't stop scratching at the walls.
I'll be stuck here forever.

Life hasn't hit me too hard yet.
Winds of change feel like a freight train.
But they pass soon enough.
The deafening noise was a low,
Middle of the workday growl
From the air going about its business.
But I had decided to scream over it
With my indignation that nothing better
Could be ahead.
I was the train. Lights off and shattering.

Maybe I should look more at the birds,
That try to fly against the wind.
And are halted mid-air.
They rock and flap.
Sometimes the hawks screech.
They should know the hunting
Is just as good behind them.
They could so easily
Fly ahead of the storm.
But still they look into it.

No. But we probably have the
Same zip code
One day soon we might
Share an address.

I yelled at my grandmother this morning.
She was knocking on my door.
So worried.
Asking if I was okay.
Afraid every time of what she could find.
I came out howling mad.
I talk so quietly, she hadn't heard me.
With my head as frayed as it is,
All that rattling awake crossed some wires.
I don't feel it was wrong.
I just shouldn't have done it.
This is what insanity must be.

I'm back to thinking I can sleep a couple hours,
Get up,
Go to an appointment
Go back to sleep and
It won't wreck my head.
The last time I did this kind of stuff,
It sunk me.
I gotta grow up soon.

Sleep like humans are supposed to.
have a routine,
Make something.
I'm a tree with no fruit and
The storm is furious.

All this:
- sleeping until noon
- going to the gym to forget
- watching Friends for hours
- doing sporradic "educational" ****

Cannot be healthy.
It grabs onto me every once in a while.
Out of nowhere I get paralyzed.
I feel like nothing
Drifting in a sea of everything.
I should be doing.

I need to find what "it" is.
And get it together.

I've got one friend. Ryli. My sort of girlfriend.
I'm getting way too attached. I really feel...
All sorts of crazy ways about her.
But it's starting to show and I'm worried I might just be
Acting crazy.
There's a big difference between
Feeling crazy in love
And acting crazy in love.
There's a fine line between
Thinking about them all day,
And thinking about sacrificing
Goats to them all day.
See?
Just a few words away.
I've got to chill.

It is a beautiful thing that I was born irresponsibly, irrepressibly, psychotic.
Oceans and ponds are just water.
One mile or a thousand can be walked.
It is beautiful that I wake up every morning as crazy and inconsolable as the one I was born on.
I have never thought she was too far.
Or beautiful, or successful for me.
I am a fool but I won.

Oh to hell with you all.
My words will be the wild in the wind.
Wrap them in my sail
And pull this house into the raging blue.
I'll find a home.
On the run.

...
Did you hear me?"
To myself as a Green Day album blares:
"You know what writing is right?
I talk to paper all day
No way
That's healthy."

I broke for the first time today.
I almost got lost in it.
It reminded me of being under water.
You know you shouldn't hold your breath
You'll die.
There's no going back from that.
Bit is sure does feel nice.
All the pressure stops being so acute.
It turns into this dull thud.
Almost tingling the nerves in your limbs.
Little angel fingers plucking you all around.
While firm hands hold your skull and
Squeeze.
You pick how hard they do.

It scares me a little.

But now I'm having an adventure.
Traversing dangerous lands.
A mis-step and I'm in an asylum.
They told me not to play with matches.
I'm a good listener.
Nobody said,
       (It'd be poetic if I stopped here. Like I lapsed again and cont fishnr

I shouldn't see her tomorrow.
It's gonna go so badly.

Not like that.

I gave my heart away. Way away
But there's a little rattle in my gut.
I'll pick her up.
Talk while I drive her home.
"Nah I figured the app stuff,
Out on my own."
Your place or mine?

Never gonna make it to the gym.
I ****** that money away.
It was so logical.
But my guts were rattling.
I made it worse before I heard.
Signed. Gave my card. Bled my account out
One day I'll listen to them.
It'll be when I'm dead.
When the only sight I have
Is 20/20 hindsight.

Do you keep the first drafts somewhere?
And look at them until you remember.
Those long nights choking on all the
Hate you cooked up for yourself?
I've been a ghost in a shell.
A roast cooking right in hell.
Pitch the forks in the trash
Use your hands to pull me apart.
Leave the bones.
Something of me will stand firm.
For once.