The bathroom looks like a ****** scene
blood spotting the walls,
the floor,
the yellowing porcelain,
blood.

My brother calls me three times around midnight
I don't pick up
I'm off in la la land
chasing funny things
put to bed on the sofa
in my friends' dorm
too high to fall safely
drunk enough to take the risk

The bathroom is a ****** scene this morning
all of that blood once ran through veins
bringing oxygen to muscles and organs
keeping my brother ticking
and now it's turning the color of rust
on the bathroom floor

too drunk to blog
allow me to send my inebriated thoughts
ton the temporal lobes which halo your ears
I spend seventeen seconds spending spent time
on times spent wallowing in the too many you're the bests
genesis is failing
genesis is falling upon us
like snowflakes spent forgetting the times we forgot
I forgot to tell you
no matter how drunk I get
I will remember you
so let's regret the forgotten reasons
of reasonable men reasoning the realist responses
of people who forgot to check their phones
for the second time today

Five days. It has been five days since I've wrote anything down.It's typical that inspiration comes when I'm furthest from the pen: driving, working, high, drunk. I'm drowning in excuses when all I need to do is attach my lazy *** to the chair and keyboard. I still haven't fixed my typewriter.
I prefer the company of girls because I've always felt distant from my father. Funnily enough - people compare us all the time. Even I can see it now, as I am writing this. I don't want to fault him. He worked hard to make my life relatively easy. But the disconnect is there.
These colt 45 cans aren't treating me very well. Neither is my empty stomach. Who cares? not me. Apathy is the plague of the millennial generation. And I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by sanity. Props to Ginsberg for that line.
The night is early and I have work at nine.
I'm going to keep on drinking this awful beer and see what happens.

There's a rag tag bunch
who live on the bus bench
outside of my apartment window
some of them know me by
"Hey you White boy,
lemme get one of those beers"
or,
"Hey you White boy,
lemme get one of those smokes"
a lovely bunch
they drink all day
and all night
and never get on the bus
they talk
and yell
and fight
and speak of women
the beautiful fairer ***
they pass around *** wine
hidden from the cops
in brown paper bags
or black plastic
they know the end of the line approaches
and they don't
particularly care

A hammock sways lazily
pushed ever so gently by the ocean breeze
where the grass fades to grains of sand
about a stone's throw away from the dock
where he fished with his father
where his father had yelled at him
for throwing back the fish
which he had left to suffocate on the dock
we could've eaten that
I'd prefer Howard's Pub
There is a coffee shop
with a vast lawn
and a small porch beneath an old wooden arcade
they sold good coffee,
and worked for their tips,
There are endless beaches
which most tourists never see
hidden beaches hiding behind signs marked:
private
and he got ****** on almost all of them
And there was a night
****** off of whiskey and Johnny Cash
were he laid atop a picnic table
drunkenly trying to count the stars
breathing in unison with the cosmos.
and there were pretty locals
riding around on bikes
the kind that you have to pedal backwards
to work the brakes,
and there is music
endless amateurs plying their crafts
to anybody who had a spare moment
leathery, salty, sticky, sweaty beach people
people who live in small shacks
which they made by hand,
who live off the fish in the Atlantic
and the good will of good people,
they said there was a lost colony or something there
and I think they still are there
a special breed of people
who have no idea what a franchise fast food restaurant is
people who live at a slower pace
than the ticking hands of all of the big money clocks
people who live in a place
where the Pelicans reign supreme
the people of Ocracoke Island

The kids are in the backroom
trying their hands at whiskey and ****
and lung cancer
with one too many ideas of glorification
but look at them -
watch them all try to be mean, hurt souls -
they all sound the same
the same post-rockstar lamentations
of the “Oh-so-cruel-world”
they’re fine with playing the victim
Now watch them cut horizons across forearms and thighs
This cry for help isn’t quite loud enough
to drown out the laughtrack soundtrack coming from my TV
I’m slow dancing with the Devil
in a candle lit room
romantic as all hell
I think I should lunge in for the fiery kiss
the Devil is one pretty *** chick
her belly full with all the reckless children
but I am wary -
I’ve always had issues with intimacy
and the great temptress is no different
we played a game of cards and became fast friends
as her tarots told me everything I wanted to hear
I asked her if she wouldn’t mind keeping my angst for safe keeping
so I can dip my pen in on occasion
but she jet set for the back door with my ego
and left me, Screaming through the night sky
back across the river of souls
Standing me up for the big dance number
the Devil is one mean *****

Now I hear a lot things
things like you can't be too blue
too white to live a blue life
well I'm hungry
and I'm black and blue
Now listen sweet cheeks
you keep flapping those gums
and I'm going to get the hell out of here
because you are a place called last
and I'm a town called over the horizon
causing riots by talking about which flavor
of starburst is the best
and ******* if you don't think pink
my blues are more like baby blues
I get jealous real easy
so maybe they're turquoise
who the hell cares
all I know now
is I wander from bus stop to bus stop
with a harmonica I can't play
singing at the top of my lungs
"BLUE?!'
"**** sunshine,
all I see
is red"

forty ounce of miller happiness
the champagne of suicide
cut it back
smoke a pack of camels
smoke another
buy another
only fifteen bucks,
**** it right?
7-11 buffalo chicken rollers
to soak up the chemotherapy
track marks from the lighter burns from the space needle injections
smoke a **** pack
then another
then another
and re-up on GB's until the room starts to carousel
now onto the ****** fratboy lime-a-rita's
**** the 12'er
then it's hard stuff
like george dickel, cracken, and Jameson
still able to count the toes on your feet through your shoes
then add another witches brew to the cauldron
go out armed with three good friends and a knife
pavement pavement pavement
ladies
strangers
strange women
conversation
the most addictive drug of them all
take the shotgun in the mouth
and feel everything pop black
wake up next to a faceless face
send her home
go to work
write a poem
do it all again

You said don't overthink this
and don't go writing me
any of those ******* love poems
because we both know this isn't love
I said,
you look nice with no shorts on
thanks,
you said
I said I love the way you look without those pesky denim shorts
you told me to stop being a smart ***
but let's be honest
we both knew
you were getting on that plane
and that I was going to write this poem anyways

There are two parts of me
One's a daydreaming little kid
Sitting on his ***
With an empty notebook
And a box of colored pencils
The other is a mean, bitter, cynical,
Angry grown up with a mustache
But **** does he get things done
As he drags the little kid
Along behind him
By the collar of his shirt

I'm young,
and I don't really know
much about anything
I love my parents,
but let's be honest
genetics didn't give me
too much of a choice
I've thought that I'd loved girls
and maybe I did
how the **** do you ever know?
but I've been thinking on the subject
for some time now
debating if it even existed
and I think it has to
It's the only thing between us
and the end of all things
But it exists in simpler forms
love is the feeling you get
when you are so mad at her
that you could lay hands on her
but you never would,
you just don't have it in you
love is when
you come back to him
time after time
regardless of the ******* mistakes he makes
time after time
Love is when
the thought of them
spending time with somebody else
being consoled by somebody else
being loved by somebody else
makes you feel absolutely
sick to your stomach
but I think
that all love really boils down to
is saying yes
even though,
you know you should say no,
that is my understanding of love

he's the type of guy
who wears the same pair of jeans
for months at a time
wearing them down to frayed seams and cuffs
The type of guy
who shops at the Good Will
comfort over style
familiar with familiarity

She's the type of girl
who doesn't know where her clothes came from
She picked them all up at one time or another
The type of girl
who doesn't spend multiple morning hours
in front of a mirror
It's about what she puts into the world
her body's expendable

They are the type of couple
who preemptively **** away their arguments
because real conflict would surely break them
so they refuse to look at it
until it becomes so large and obtrusive
that it comes crashing down on them
like a breaker
and washes them away

I'm stuck singing the whiskey blues
left in the apartment
feeling the looseness overtake
feeling the who cares
coming to the front
feeling the love yous
aching deep

The whiskey blues,
nothing better
nothing worse
for a hungry soul
hungry for
soulful hunger
and a sense
of the poison

The whiskey blues
left singing
tunes of a time
which never graced
my presence
Left looking at pictures
which rock the idealist
sensibilities which dominate
my gut

The whiskey blues
you better believe
that I'll be thinkin'
of you
fluttering through the tunnels
of my sleep deprived brain

The whiskey blues
just another excuse
to express
my thoughts of you

It comes and goes in lunar waves
flying above the mountain top
then the nosedive
we suggest the cabin prepare for impact in ten. nine eight seven....
it's a water landing

If it was sixty outside today in December -
then maybe I won't feel so ******
at least until the night comes forth
alone with a head full of thoughts
stumbling through a strangers dark living room
trying to find a light switch

It's all fun and games riding a wave back to shore
but the wave recedes and leaves you with a back covered in sea shell scratches
swim out a little further
ride a little longer, a little bigger, lively, dangerous.
keep swimming further out
shoot for the sand bar
or the reef
but you might find yourself lost
helpless in the clutches of some foul riptide

Victims pay the price eventually
a role clad in escape
store windows full of things
that were never your fault
but you have a pocket full of change
hands shake
stomach growls
skin itches
tell yourself no
and cave in just like always
tomorrow's better for me anyway

No Mom, No Dad
everything is fine
oh yeah and merry Christmas
cheers and blessings
quality time with the people you love
in that costume you don so often that
it's hard to tell one side of the cracked mirror from the other
pound fist into open palm open palm onto flushed face
sweating and clammy and growling at the waist
shake it off champ,
the next round starts now

Now picture a small stretch of city
on that beautiful sixty degree December afternoon
maybe it's uptown or the arts district
you are with friends
conversations -
easy and honest. Organic.
talk of dreams and goals
bask in the sunlight. leisure.
sit outside at the cafe with an iced coffee
in the most-hipstery jar you've ever seen
who cares?
drink it down
enjoy it
days like this don't come around often
unless you make them

Walking down the street I pass
a girl walking in her bundle of flannel and warmth
strut strut strut
I blow smoke from the corner of my mouth
to spare her the danger
of my second hand smoke

He didn't rob the banks
he didn't shoot any sheriffs
he sat outside of the bank
and burned his money in a pile
he gave his possessions
to the hungover sobs
leaving the drunk tank in the early hours
He left his family
his country
his city
his friends
to become something more
he didn't break any laws
but they still chase him down
they want him back in the fold
to insure that nobody follows
an outlaw
who didn't actually
step outside of the law

He comes in around the same time
every Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday
eating alone save for the newspapers
constantly clutched beneath his arm
his spectacles worn to ice
his windbreaker and khakis
every time ordering the same
salad, soup, and pasta dish
He doesn’t talk much
and I like that
his words are rare occurrences
of honest observation
a reflection of the aged, sad look
which he wears on his face
every Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday
just before the dinner rush
I never see him arrive or leave
simply he appears
a ghost from an old photograph
walking among the swirling mess
of flesh, blood, and heartbeats
I bet he drives an Oldsmobile
or maybe a buick
stick shift with faded leather interior
I bet he had a wife once who loved him
and children who weren’t too grown up
to give him a call every now and then
just to check in
I think about this man
under the closing-time moon
as I pull myself into my car
and leave
away with my own life
my own story
and I aim not to forget him

Gross.

anxious nervous twitching mess
is it hunger?
excitement?
rage?
fear?
You carry around that weight
all day
everyday
when will those legs buckle?
when I'm dead

If my life is like a tightrope
and I'm toeing down the the line
then the world is my audience
they're all waiting for different things
to see me fall
fail
take the big nose dive of suspense
others are just curious
as to the nature of the whole spectacle
and an odd couple hundred of people
want to see me make to the other side
smiling and laughing
ecstatic in the ecstasy of my success
and the way I see it
that makes my Dad
a safety net made out of green backs
and my Mum
the harness I use to get back up
when i inevitably fall off

allow me to get real
If I may
the car wash where I work *****
money is great
because I love to blow it
but work is soul crushing
sometimes I fantasize
about going to sleep
and never waking up
not suicide
just an infinite nothing
in one small **** I could be gone
and not have to worry
about letting down my crazy alcoholic mother
who I love more than I would've thought possible
or my absentee father
who has been a wallet whom I've grown a surprising attachment to
and you all read my poems
I scoff at even calling them that
but you read them
and maybe think,
I can relate
or I like his style
well lemme tell you something
my style is self destruction
***** stained sofas
and ****** faces
and there is no glamour to it
and I'll be the first to tell you
there's no glory
I'm in a hole
and I'm addicted to digging
but if I may
let me say this
don't worry about me
worry about you
worry about what will happen when we all wake up
and ask ourselves
what the **** have I been doing with my life
where did all of this time go
all I can say is this
if you aren't living
on your own terms
working towards whatever it is you SOB's love
then you might as well die now
because if you aren't living for passion
are you really living at all?

from the times when we lost the ball over the hedge
and had to ask for teacher's approval
past the days sneaking onto the farm
performing hay bale removal
running away from angry farmers
and school dances
those moments you heart catches
in your throat
before you ask
you wanna dance or something?
from the times your heart rate was thumping
from this sinking ship we're all jumping
first drink is never the last
everything is so rosy when we are looking back
pained goodbyes
and times spent laughing
flying across the world
to the sound of dull clapping
new weather new school new friends
torn pages and books that don't end
public school and private
mountains we haven't climbed yet
and a new set of smiles
fading all the while
while we become someone we haven't yet met
try hard not to get scared and jet set
changes and pretty girls
all alone in the world
just like everybody else
the book shelves
we never built
and the schools we never graduated from
we all put these lyrics in our songs
cracked bongs and braces
all to say I loved you if you ever loved me
we turn the pages so fast
that we lose some moments
but others are burned into our eyes
like the stage lights which burned so bright
even when the pictures fades to sepia
or black and white
we have blank leaves left to leave behind
and the camera around our necks is only so heavy
because it's full of film
so crack a smile
and grab a friend
family
lover
stranger
enemy
and show your good side
and scream cheese
from the top of your lungs

I write poetry
Because it is easy
Mix metaphors
With simple similes
An awesome analogy
Don't let the diction get too decipherable
Don't let the fiction get too ****** up
We all know how a story should work
Make me emotional
Make me feel something
So I can feel human
Because I'm a lazy
Emotionally repressed
Kid with a shoulder full of chips
And a mouth full of ******* jokes
So make me whole
Mr poet
While I fantasize
About all the ways
You could die

Pop culture died off
but media executives
were pretty attached to that horse
and they have one hell of a swinging arm
they got their bats, paddles, batons, and fists
and they really let that horse have it
breaking bones and crushed organs
a pool of blood held by gravity
rests lazily in a bloated stomach
and after the melee is all over with
all we are left with
are shoes and reality t.v. shows
what an achievement

They say that a shooting star
is another angel cast out from heaven
and we make wishes
upon their damnation
hoping against hope
that somebody is looking out
for all the fallen stars

Cascades of brunette beauty
A night of lost potential
Dancing in the still darkness
Lost in a flash of ivory
Deep in a pool of brown eyes
It could have been so pretty

Fluid enters and we move like machines
Graceful machinations of the weary
A collective howl into the empty
Wandering through fog no star to follow
No wise men just lost travelers
Bringing gifts to the unfaithful masses

The night goes on and the sun starts to rise
We come out with tides of golden beach
Crimson skies drip red with ****** tears
Painful thoughts rush away beneath waves
Razor blades melt and become smooth satin
Next, repeat
It could have been so pretty

Got a job waiting tables
put the two weeks in at the car wash
tomorrow's my day off
It's November,
but the sun still thinks it's September
filtering through the dead leaves on bare limbs the color of nostalgia
at a cool seventy degrees
a last hurrah for sundresses and short shorts
fine by me
I'm writing a poem by my open window
letting the dusty, smoky room breathe for once
sure, things could be better
but they sure as hell could be worse

Don't approach
the humanity encroaches upon the macabre
I dance pencils, pens, and cigarettes across my knuckles
like hypnosis
I drink and smoke until I'm hypnotized by Hippy free love ideals
This **** makes no sense
but I'm fine with being sensibly nonsensical
It's a character trait
when you're strange
the doors and good old Jim
couldn't capture it better

the witching hour is upon me
my eyelids are heavy
but never drooping
for the past two years I've been tired
but unable to sleep
without jane or jack
but **** man
those jokers will only take a man so far
and in my case it was to a lot of nights
in a bad situation - dead to the world
or waking up in a haze - unable to remember anything
but I know this double bed feels continents wide
and in it I feel small and vulnerable
there's a fine line between independence and loneliness
and I already used that line on you
trying to get you to keep me company
no ***
or fooling around
deep rapid breaths and the sweet smell of sweat in the air
just somebody to sleep with
to feel their warmth and my warmth reflected back
God
I am tired

We tight rope walk
down our double edged sword
we wage war like the Gods
atop Olympus
We cultivate life
like the farmer tends to his crops
We are that of
flesh
blood
heart
emotion
strength
weakness
grit
and steel
We crack the earth
with our footsteps
and call it industry
A species of slaves
who enslave each other
because it is all we know
dark times pass above us
like thunder clouds
but in moments
we produce unthinkable greatness
like forks of lightning
across the black canvas
of the night sky

In my dreams
we stand together
bare footed
on the grass
of our rural Georgia home
or maybe
we are out west
born again pioneers
trekking on through
the California sunshine

In my dreams you would be happy
all because of me
and in my dreams
you would feel safe
and would call me
your better half
your rock
your one and only
with nothing but compliments
coming from your lips

In my dreams you would support me
and I you
and we would revel
in each other's success
and we would wake together
in the sober morning light
to the pretty sounds of birds
perfectly content
moving only forward

whatever I may conjure in my sleep
rest assured you are there

she came and went
just out of reach
like a dream escaping your mind
as the night escapes the sky
a whiff of perfume from a passing stranger
that takes you back to some memory
you can’t quite remember
unexplainable
I’m tumbling all over myself
fumbling with the words I know
and the language I do not
silly boy
I have some questions for you
and I would have said anything she wanted
so long as I could leave my message
in fingertip cursive in the steam on her mirror
I wish to catch you beneath back porch moons
a lightning bug in my jar
in hues of red passion
and purple contemplation
my hands running through her hair
fingertips gently tracing the arch of her spine
hobos walking alone through the railway dust
she is the claw game toy which fell at the last minute
I’ve been up late at night
scouring every darkened corridor and upturned rock
pebbles to be skipped across the pond
always looking for another taste of that perfume
maybe tonight
as I am resting in deep sanctifying sleep
maybe we will cross paths
and fall atop each other in a heap of love and sweat
and maybe in the morning
I won’t forget her

no longer am I afraid of my own ignorance
nor am I afraid to lie
every single ******* poem
has to be so **** enigmatic
that I tire of reading
the same whiskey stained, cigarette smelling
blocks of text
I hate poetry
and I hate poets
I hate myself
and I hate you
so sue me
pretentious young people so concerned with life
pretentious young people all looking for a crack at the limelight
me oh me oh me oh my
read my pain drenched musing
feel the depth of my soul
because I have no other hopes
of ******* above my weight class
Me so touched and artistic
Me drunk and high -
a raving mess of hormones and emotions
where do we go from here?
which breakthrough is waiting to be made?
are we doomed to ape the beats and Bukowski
until the day that writing is made obsolete by tweeting?
**** oh **** oh **** oh ****
see? I’m edgy, couldn’t care less about P.C. and good taste
I’m wearing the same black shirt
as everybody else
but mine is different - see?
why be  a poet
when you can be anything else?
who chooses the bullet to the head
over the winning lottery ticket?

they say the working man gets a good night's sleep
well I haven't much use for sleep
see, in this jungle of a world
you have to be sharp
your wits a finely honed machete
to cut through thick overgrowth
to reveal the salivating predators
waiting in ambush
so the old saying gets a little warped
everybody has to sleep once they're dead
and everybody has to die
these lines all have final destinations
so I'm trying to convert my train car
into a roaming idea factory
with somewhere by the open window in the corner
where I can kick my feet up and drink a cold one
these cigarettes and cups of coffee
are fighting valiantly to keep these eyes of mine from falling shut
but already I feel myself drifting as these words stream through me
flowing off to some distant stranger's dinner plate
my body is made of heavy wood
not much in the ways of joints and movement
but I beg you
to crack open my skull
and siphon out these silly little poems
from the swirling wreckage

I take coffee with my sugar and milk
I take air with my smoke
I take water with my beer
I take one too many steps towards the edge
falling now
letting go of a life too fogged up to control
**** my phone who needs the apps
friends fuckbuddies and pretentious awful photographs
I don’t think I’ve been awake for the last two years
because this all feels like a dream
and the glove fits no matter how many times
I run it through the drier
nobody ever changes - they only come into their own
I’m trying to get rid of these Russian Nesting Dolls
please oh please like my ******* poems
please oh please stroke my ego
please oh please tell me you aren’t wearing any *******
the blue sky is collapsing on us
and it feels incredible to see heaven brought down to our level
the people on the corner must’ve been right after all
the end is nigh and the devil is white
I look at my reflection as it warps like a crazy carnival
a little less false prophet and a little more anti-christ
I’m just sitting here like
“just be honest dude,
the solution to any writing problem is writing”
and now I’m over there like
“Stay the ******* my lawn”
bitter is an acquired taste
but if I am being honest I couldn’t care less about taste
so long as I get you drunk
so tweet that
put that on your blog
I’m not ready to leave the assembly line gig yet
and neither are you

The boy was alone
alone while surrounded
by the phantoms of what was,
a torturous lonesomeness
which hardened him
what was once warm and vibrant
was slowly cooling
like the Earth
after the cosmic soup of the big bang
He wasn't quite ready for it
to be tossed into the pit
of living and breathing
he never asked for it
but he knew he had to be tough
stiff lipped
deadly,
so he quelled the complaints
tucked them down in his heart
which had adopted the pace
of war machines
his view had shifted
a world once of wonder
was now infuriating
he wanted to end it
one great final bang
to end all bangs
so that he might be left
to whimper
to be warm again
to miss everything
he had just sent
flaming into oblivion
he was on the reaper's path
a dead man walking

Redemption came forth
and hit him
like a moment of adolescent embarrassment
it wasn't the girl herself
rather,
what she stood for
in his eyes
she was afflicted by the same world as he
and yet she found ways to dance
and sing
and love
he admired that most,
little by little
she coaxed him forward
back from beyond the brink
of primordial passions
back from beyond the tipping point
between helping and hurting,
slowly his anger changed
from something bitter and lifeless
into a fiery explosion
splitting the night sky
a second sun
she showed him how to shape it,
direct it,
sharpen it,
she showed him
how his aim may stay true,
and she made him deadlier
because she gave him a purpose
and a target,
somewhere to go.
And before long
he could remember
what it was like
to still have innocence
his rage simmered down
and became healthy passion
healing and assuring
no longer a sword
but a shield
and he had the notion
that maybe one day
this creature from on high
could even allow him
not to just give love
but to accept it
which was the greatest
gift of all

Make sure
I'm the first person
You drunk text this weekend
She said
He said
You always will be
So  the weekend came
Drinks drank
Thoughts thought
Feelings felt
I'm very drunk,
And drunk texting you,
To let you know,
I miss you
And she said
Dawww
Miss you too
With three w's
Three,
Which of course means
She likes me back

We met in the beat hotel
a room
or two
or three
or some other number
brimming with
expatriots
hiding from society
they shared ideas
and art
and passion
and life
and through their drug fueled dreams
they helped change the mold of the Earth
a hotel for people
not afraid of the different
or scary
or challenging
the hotel which brought forth
lyrical music in written form
and freedom of spiritual apathy
drugs and drink and danger
and a sense of the footloose
dominated all
they used every aspect of life
the unspeakable and the unhearable
the beat hotel
I wish there were more

If you only ever get a glance at one shot at fiery heaven laughter
don't just sit there on your *** thinking now isn't the right time
time is relative so all you have is now
right now
so crack a naysayer in their pearly yellows
because walking around zombified through fields of green and seas of brown
is only one razor blade away from suicide
and I don't want to be insensitive
(yes I do)
but if you walk along the easy road you'll find only cowards
get the hell up
put some ******* pace in your step
drink a gallon of gasoline,
eat a match,
and explode
it's the only way they'll ever see you

Literal thinker
an analytic mind
this translates into an over-thinker
thinking that the small details that make this world
are all connecting and all crashing down among us
every potential gear slip
twisted metal in a field of flames
the no's spoken
the fists thrown
the off switch is gone. lost. broken.
living life is an instinct
a reaction
not a thought process
but some voices are hard to silence

Somebody once told me
no matter what you say -
if you believe it to be true -
speak it with volume
My junior year of high school
I interned for a week
teaching English to middle schoolers
they were working on the creative writing unit
classrooms covered in posters which read things like
no tears in the writer, no tears in the reader
and other good inspirational stuff
some of the kids wrote poems
others wrote short stories
others wrote I don’t know whats
but they all told a story which to them
was an essential truth of life
just waiting to be heard
and when they got up
to share in front of the class
from the shy girl in the soccer shoes
to the tall joker
they all spoke with volume
because some things
are impossible to ignore

the piece fell in the James
floated away to lands unknown
off on its own adventure
and we were just ****** to see it go
if you fill up a room with enough smoke
you start to see the things in people
which writhe, twist, and turn like snakes
the poisonous reaction sending up cries for help to an empty throne
and the fuel we run on:
nothing more than chemicals ****** out of the long **** of corporate fat cats
and we drink it happily
and wear the clothes they say we look good in
but in that room,
slowly filling with smoke,
we were trying to take it some place else
somewhere naked and honest
and full of the shame and secrets
that the youth of America have been carrying with them for years
like bowling ***** sitting in our gut
in the smoke filled room lies become prophetic wisdom
and like dominoes
our flaws and false beliefs
all fall down
one at a time
and when the room is completely full
we suffocate
only to disappear when the smoke clears

Excuses are like *******
everybody's got one
and if you don't
then that's
very
very
weird

I dropped out of school after my first semester of freshmen year. My parents had just gotten a divorce. I was in a state of perpetual, adolescent, hopeless confusion.
I've always loved stories. Fiction or nonfiction didn't matter. Just as long as it blew my mind. I, like so many before me, was going to be a writer. Not just any writer either. No, I was going to be part, Hemingway, part Kerouac, part bukowski, and part Thompson.
The decision was made. I only had one problem: I couldn't tell anybody my plans. I am a privately educated kid from England. My path was laid out before me. Hard work to college to minimal success to family life to riches I never knew existed. So I wrote up a fake class schedule. For some reason it contained multiple French classes... I don't know either.
So every week day I would "go to class". Which meant I was walking to the Bowe street starbucks with a pen, a journal, and a laptop. I wrote so much terrible poetry that year you could replace me with any teenage girl suffering from rejection and self-conscious body issues. But you know what? I put the ******* hours in. After a while I found something which I could pretend was my style. I started getting emails from strangers telling me how good my poetry was. I got a lot if reads - 100,000 before I knew it. My head was so big I had a hard time fitting through doors.
Have you ever got so high you forgot your own name? I have. The *** helped me ignore the constant whirring of anxious thinking. The drink helped me shed my politically correct layers of defense. The validation from my poetry ensured my needy feet would never touch the ground. My pride told me everything was fine. Better than fine.
So I started writing less and less. Started staying in more and more. *** fueled day dream benders became a regular thing. Icarus had never came so close to a fake sun.
People started to notice. Aggravating talks about my potential and intelligence. Horrendous awkward dinners with my family. My mum used to tell everybody that I was writing a novel. I didn't have the heart to say I was lucky to get one poem on paper everyday.
Friends stayed distant. Girls came briefly and left as quick as their legs could take them. I became a ghost, haunting the streets of Richmond with bohemian declarations of... "True freedom." Life had lost it's luster. My control was slipping.
The story I would like to tell is that I won. Conquered cultural wilds to paint myself a noble individual. But none of that happened. This isn't a story of my success as a voice of a generation. This is not a story of redemption. This is a story about a confused kid who gave into the temptations of spontaneous decisions. A kid who needed help and advice but was too proud to know how to ask. This is the story of coming to the brink, and not caring if you fall.
So where am I now? I'm back in school, dealing with feeling like I have severely underachieved. I am waiting tables for people I could care less about. I am catching up with my Friends and peers who have already surpassed me. But I am alive. I am still writing. I am here to tell you that life punches in no pattern. Haymakers come with jabs, and the bell always seems to far away. You don't beat life, not even on a technicality. You just give everything you can to try and go the distance.

You can hear a pin drop
when the brain goes pop
and you can't see the world
for all the rain drops
and then it all stops
suspended outside of reality
hitting like a crushing finality
but it's no fatality,
in actuality, it's more like taking a drug
and being treated like a ****
no more kisses
no more hugs
no more best wishes
you're on you own
atop your thrown of throwaway thoughts
surrounded by all of the ghosts which haunt
their cheekbones thin and gaunt
carrying all of their sins - they flaunt
the cha cha chatter of the keyboard
allows you to soar
up up and away
looking for a better day
but let me put it in a simpler way,
when the words start to drop,
you can hear a pin drop

We fear everything
that we don't know
a snake bite
paralysis
suffocation
we fear everything
we fear ourselves
because they don't impress
we fear others
because their eyes
are the color of denial
we fear communication
because we have nothing to communicate
we fear fear itself
because we know
what it is capable of

The half man half mattress
My Mum always got down
"You're so smart, Why don't you just study and do homework?"
I'm working from home and studying my craft
putting in more hours than I ever put in Geometry class
because proofs and circular dimensions
never made anybody else smile
and I hope these words have
so sorry Mum
but this half mattress lifestyle
is too appealing
and I know that granny never went to college
but she never lived to see the ink flow through me
so I promise that one day
I won't need to hit up mom n' pops
for some of that evil green paper
one day this half man half mattress
is going to be so huge
like a household name
so don't worry Mum
I'm skinny right now
but in no time
I'm going to be living a three square meals a day life
and today I don't have a job
and one day I won't need one
So don't worry Mum
It may look hard right now
but I'm having the time of my life

The music blares loud enough to shake the car,
loud,
but not clear, because the cable is kinda screwy
so that every time
he hits a pothole
the music melts into
teeth rattling vibrations
and the breeze gushes in through the temporal openings
threatening to blow
the card parking pass
out the window
into the vast pleasant outside world
the sun burns down from space
turning the world warm with childhood nostalgia
and chlorophyll green lampshades
hanging from chocolate brown trees
paint the world with an aura of emeralds
and the spedometer plays Apollo
rising higher on its arc
twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, ect.
the rush of speed becomes deafening
and the hot asphalt road rises,
dips,
meanders,
and he controls its will
with the easy gliding of the leather steering wheel
and an easy smile
driving with the windows down

"Keep quiet
why do you always have to yell?"
If I kept it down,
I fear you wouldn't hear me
well enough
"Just slow it down.
You're talking at a mile a minute."
If I talk fast it's only because
I fear I don't have enough time
to say what I need to say
"Do you have to swear so much?
it sounds ugly. It doesn't sound smart."
If I swear
It's only because I fear your loss of attention
"Why do you always sound so sad?
Just smile.
Lighten up."
If I sound sad
depressed
upset
it is only because
I fear for you

You painted me an image
Of rolling southern fields
Struggling to stand up right
Beneath the muggy, humid sky
You wrote me song
Called it city living
You never told me
That instead of the ambitious, bohemian dream
I'd cut myself - deep - on the edge of things
You gave me a small taste of your scent
It smelled like good tongue kissing
But it was never groupies with no *******
Only a constant stream of falling into
The hard concrete of an impossible love
With a beautiful angel
Back then -
Where the reds were rosier
And I was so impressionable
You promised me so much
Maybe I deserve these bruises
Which tattoo up my entire body
Weaving a story
Of willing betrayal