People are uncomfortable with truth.
There is truth in silence
and people are uncomfortable with silence.

When asked how one is doing, the proper response is 'fine' or any indicator of greater ease.
One is expected to participate in class activities, team building exercises, and other meticulous, tedious motions of repetition.

One should shake hands, smile, participate in pagentry when only putrescence is felt.

One should not look at walls, there is no social status in looking at walls.
One should not have problems unless they are desirable. Anxiety, but too bad. Depression, but not too bad.
One should appear clean and well slept,
one should claim one received very little sleep, regardless of how much sleep one actually received.

If one is female, one should show skin but not too much skin.
If one is female, one should not resist ****** advances, yet one should not have multiple ****** partners.

If one is male, one should be in fit condition, one should not cry, and one should not show interest in a member of the opposite gender except for those of a ****** nature. One should not acknowledge the existence of more than two genders, ****** orientations, or trains of thought.

One should be socially and politically aware, but one should not raise their voice on these issues unless others of a high social status are.

One should be happy, but not too happy.

Sometimes I think about girls.
And I think about how they've hurt me and how I've hurt them.

Sometimes I get sad.
And I don't want to ever hold someone again.
I don't want to love.
More so, I don't want to hate.

There's this one girl.
I don't know these feelings I have for her.
She's cute.
She always says "Hi Nolan" and small talk ensues.
I think she's into me.
And I think I could ask her out on a date or something.

But then I think of where it could go.
We could have a ****** time and have it be awkward and not talk again.

We could have a good time and go on more dates and start getting all attached.
And then break up and hate each other.
Because no matter how much love I bring I'm always afraid of the hate my hears beats.

I don't believe it's possible to be with someone forever.
Eventually you'll get bored.
And angry.
And sad.

And she's so **** cute.
I want to love her.
I want to hold her when she's sad or happy or cold or scared or excited or in love.
I want to kiss the top of her forehead.
I want all of these things and I want them for an eternity.
oh well.

i
I have always loved you.
You're my best friend you big beautiful idiot, what do you expect?

ii
You remind of words written on fog on a mirror. You can be beautiful and ugly but you will always be fleeting.
You told me that i remind you of corn flowers,
and I never really told you much.

iii
You are forgiven and I hope you are well.

iv
You came into my life at a weird time and I came into yours at an even weirder time.
We're both actors, so we were pretty good at pretending.

v
I kissed you when I shouldn't have and your mother disapproved. We've both grown so much and I love you exponentially.
You're a combination of Audrey Horne,
and a desert flower
and I wanted to kiss you so bad by the creek last week but perhaps your mother would still disapprove.

vi
You were my green hair muse,
I have so much to say about you
and I'm embarrassed to say I miss you.

the easiest way to tell another of anxiety
is to simply say that it interrupts.

it interrupts your life,
gets in the way of love
and laughter.

Just like a well placed hyphen - anxiety interrupts

The world is absurd and nothing is of value.
There is no meaning in these daily rituals.
All these petty relationships and petty jobs and pathetic people they have no value.

There is no such thing as love.
Your mother will never love you.
You are a broken ****** and don't let anyone lie to you.
When people say children are a blessing knock their teeth out; they are wrong.
When people tell you there is a god knock their teeth out.
When people tell you there is no god knock their teeth out.

No matter how many people surround you, you will die alone.
Just as you came into this world.
Whatever god you prayed to will not welcome you with wide arms.
Whatever hell you feared will not be burning.
Whatever world you left will not miss you.

You are alone in this world.
The only thing you can confirm is yourself.
You are real.
You are here.
Nobody else is.
Everything revolves around you.
You.

You think of yourself as smart, attractive and courageous.
I am here to tell you to knock your teeth in; you are wrong.
When you sleep the world stops.
You.
You.
You.
*You.

No matter how well defined the border lines are
I'll walk all along, and cross the ocean
into a barren land of wasted emotion
from the best and the worst of intentions.

No matter how tightly the blinds are drawn
light will peek through and shed light
upon a bleak urban interior landscape
complete with cigarette butts, Vonnegut, and everything in between.

Nights in White Satin may be gone off the charts
but not from our hearts.
In this case, white satin is the plain, unmade bed belonging to my sister.
I thought I told you to stay away, yet you linger on the backside of my eyelids.

Constant blue lights
gently illuminate this bedroom, untouched by the night.
Be careful what you wish for because Jesus saves
but he'll also ******* over for the **** of it.

You entice me.
With your lips
you
      e
          n
             t
                i
                  c
                     e
                           me.

               With your legs you
                  
                      e
                   c
                 i
               t
             n
         e
.me

With everything
you
       have
you make me lust.
With everything
you
       got
you make me yearn.

Y
e
  a
   r
    n
for something I cannot have.
L
u
  s
   t
for something I have not got.

~

I torture myself in many ways.

I dated a girl who emotionally abused me for months and when I finally split things off I cried everyday for a couple months.

I split things off with a girl who I loved with all my heart, I continue to believe I would cross oceans for her, yet I have not cried.

I'm an oxymoron, a lesson in irony.
I'm an upbeat jazz number, played in a minor chord.
I feel the world for those around me,
and only bitter disdain for myself.

I'm attractive, I've got a strong jaw line,
and a nose most guys would **** for.
I dress better than the guys I run with,
and my hair does exactly what I want it to.

I read French existentialist authors
and consider myself well versed in modern jazz.
I've got a steady job, and I've never been late once.

When I think about who I am,
and the jealousy I feel towards the happiness I am not providing you,
I get sick to my stomach.

All I've ever wanted is for you to be happy and you appear to be so and I'm upset because I'm a jealous ***** of a man who has the emotional capacity of a child longing for his mother's teet.


I don't know why I feel the way I do but I'm out of *** and I have to deal with how I'm feeling and that will be a first.

It's hard,
but I'll be able to accept it after a few more shots,
a couple more hits,
and maybe a line,
but as I am in a semi sober state
it is hard to believe.

Hard to believe that you chose him over me,
hard to believe you swoon around him,
and don't bat an eyelash at me.
It's hard to believe he's my best friend
and I'm letting him do this.

I have everything I could ask for.
I'm white, straight and I hail from a lower-middle class household.
So why do I lay in bed and wallow in self pity when everything I could ever ask for sits right in front of me.
I have enough money to buy all the drugs I need and if I run out I can steal my mothers medication and sell it (I've never been a fan of amphetamines.)
I have two or three girls who take their clothes off and kiss my chest without me asking them too,
and I have friends who pick me up whenever I fall down,
so why do I never stop whining?
Why can I never feel fulfilled?
Numerous pairs of lips feed mine owns lust.
Yellow powder finds its way into my nasal cavity,
and plenty of ***** rests cozily in my stomach,
and plenty of chances to better myself fly by,
so what am I looking for?

Someday,
I'll have peace.

I know I will,
this can't go on forever.

~

However often Steely Dan says
all that I am thinking,
he never says
all that I need to say.

I guess that's why I'm putting this into writing.
I guess that's why I'm taking this from my heart,
which will die,
and putting it on paper,
which will die as well,
only much later.

I want to matter.
I want to relate this to you,
my friends,
in a way that is worth something.
In a manner that is in no way resembling
my usual upheaval
of mismatched,
poorly chosen words,
spoken in a drunken
and sobering
slur.

To You:
However often and warmly I think of you when the sun is out, my midnight thoughts of you are always cold, always confused, and always sickening. I'm truly sorry for this. It's always been me.


To The First:
You entered my mind at about the same time you entered my life,
which is uncasually unusual for matters such as these.
I believe this to be the first of many mistakes we made.


To The Last:
We've all been hurt.
We've all cried and
we've all hated the same person that we love.
But no one deserves to be whole more than you do.
No one deserves a friend more than you,
you,
the one named Robin.
I know not your life,
nor the story you wrote about,
on a desperately, obviously rainy day in March.
All the best to you.

Whether it's scientifically proven or not,
I know it to be true;
the best cure for a hangover
is more *****.

A noise woke me up.
Stumbling through the empty house I
struggled to find it.
It was odd,
seemingly everywhere I went it got louder and louder;
this thumping, pulsing, rapturous noise.
Giving up,
I reached for the half full bottle (the deciding factor to a bottle being half full or half empty is not the attitude of the drinker but the contents contained in said bottle) of *****,
took a swig,
chased it with orange juice,
took a swig,
chased it with orange juice,
etc.,
etc.,
etc.,
and so I began this day as I had ended the last one.

In a glorious and raging state of mind I stumbled...
(no, I've already used that)
... I fell down the stairs and watched the sun as it climbed and climbed
and I'm not sure how long I lay sprawled on the wet November grass
but I know how long I thought of you,
and I know how long I've been thinking of you
and I've been thinking of you for days.

~

This has happened before. Love fades.

And what a slap in the face it is
to keep my father's old driver's license
tucked nicely into my cigarette pouch.
Because every son wants to slap his father's face
and also to be just like him.

Today I walked into a used book store
looking for anything that could distract.

The air was cool,
the atmosphere serene.

I walked down the isles and looked at nothing in particular.
I found myself in the poetry section.

I looked up and saw cummings.
My favorite. our favorite

I pick it up and leaf through. Painful memories come flooding like blood into the syringe.
Make it stop.

I began walking towards the door when a familiar song comes on.
"Oh baby baby it's a wild world,
it's hard to get by just upon a smile."

I can't stand to be in this place any longer.
I can't stand to be in this ******* town with these stupid ***** and these stupid bookstores and these stupid vegans and these stupid ******* kids and these stupid cool kids and these stupid writers and these stupid stoners and skaters and singers and football players and drama kids and choir kids and band kids and these stupid ******* Ag kids.
I can't stand it.
I need to get it.
I need my strings to melt.
I need this towns grip on me to lighten up.
I need your grip on me to lighten up.

please, you gotta let me go
*You gotta let me go

I used to play with Army Men
until I learned what an Army meant.
Until I learned the evil they carried out,
following orders is no excuse.
Freedom is no excuse.
Security is no excuse.

The reasons are simple: hate, greed, ignorance, fear.

People forget that the English Settlers killed ten times more Native Americans than the amount of people killed during the September 11th Attacks.
They just forget.

They forget about the terrorist tactics our founding fathers employed to reach victory.
They forget about the terrorist tactics our leaders employ today to reach victory.
They just forget.

~

Please get out of my brain

Depression
epression
pression
ression
ession
ssion
sion
ion
on
n
­I'm turning into everything I promised myself I wouldn't be.
Everything I hate.
I'm losing all the values I've lived by.
All the values I've tried so hard to emulate.
I hate myself.
I hate this world.
I hate everyone in it.

I'm trying to be a better man.
The only person I have to prove it to is myself.
How about you?

Everything that I have is being taken from me.
The freedoms I once held dear are being stripped.
Everything a human being is entitled to is being stolen.
My happiness has been replaced with sadness.
Hatred.

The life that I had was so great.
It was filled with friends, food, and fulfillment.
I now have to struggle for all of these.
My friends are slowly becoming acquaintances.
The food is no longer filling and enjoyable.
My actions no longer make me feel good about myself.

Now I'm second guessing all the choices I make.

Their is a bright side though.
It shows through occasionally.
Looking into my sisters happy eyes.
Having a good times with my friends.
Doing the right thing because it's right.
No God is telling me to do these things.
No Bible is explaining why.

This is a good life.
I should be happy.
I'll add that to my list.

I actually thought about what I would do if this exact thing happened.
I thought about how I would be cool and pop a cigarette in my mouth all slick and say "Sup"

I would be a ******* lady killer. The hateful and sad feelings from before, during and after our relationship will be burned down with that cigarette.

We'll wonder what it's like to be inside a burning ember.
We'll talk about how we're turning into Holden Caulfield.

And about how Hemingway is God.
And cummings is the best.

We'll do all these things and everything will be perfect.
Our thoughts will be put to rest and our broken hearts will be mended.

We will finally go to sleep and all will be well.
There will be love in the valley and mountains and  the strings of our collective being.

A name
                A face
                              A memory
                                                 Or Two.
                                    No life
                  No story
No hope.

The splitting of years was spent in a small room with a lovely group of nine people, surrounded by smoke and the sounds of the nineties.
Elena, with her laughter infused with gold.
Liam, with his thick dark curls.
Fritz, with his polite disregard.
Jonah, with his Iron Maiden shirt.
Kelly, with her eyes of nature.
Hannah, with quite understanding.
Erin, with her love of all things beautiful.
Dylan, with his smile of a deep purple.
Dennis, with his acid fried heart, still beating with love.

Beautiful people and beautiful dreams.
Here's to a beautiful year.

I'm better.
Better than I was
two months ago,
a year ago.

I'm worse.
Worse than I was
two days ago,
a month ago.

I'm trying,
to stop using
people and substances.

Oh! the same old song:
Chorus:
People and substances x 4
First Verse:
Using until I've used all there is,
Trying until I've tried my best,
Using until I've used the remainder of this,
Trying until I've tried the rest.
Chorus
Second Verse:
Some days go slow
and some go fast.
So days are mellow
and some are brash.
Chorus
Drum break
Third Verse:
Using until there's nothing left
Trying hard, but it ain't my best
Stolen: Integrity!
Reward for information regarding theft.
Chorus
Repeat chorus with slowing tempo
and volume until song fades
into misshapen and misplaced drums.

Rant like a pig.
Go ahead, I want to hear it.
You cry wolf, really, I'm interested.
Cry like a wolf. Cry like the wolf who is always at fault.
Cry like the wolf who is alone and who is scared and who is not sacred at all.
Rant like the pig who is constantly threatened by wolves. Who cannot leave the watchful eye of the Sheppard.
Cry.
Cry some more.
Smoke a cigarette.
Smoke until your stomach is upset, please.
Smoke until your pack is all gone and your painful stomach is replaced by a piercing headache.

Be hypocritical. Trust me, you can.
Do exactly to me what you'd hate for me to do.
What you hated me for doing.
Treat others the way you want to be treated or else treat others the way you were treated; hypocritically.

People want to do something great.
They want to write novels and join the army
and cure cancer and raise a family.
But when all is said and done,
the greatest thing you could ever do
is volunteer at your local soup kitchen.

In a town full of good people
I have to be bad.
I have to smoke cigarettes behind the church during lunch.
But in a world full of bad people
I have to be good.
I have to carry to butts in my pocket and throw them in a dumpster.
I have to be bad.
I have to steal handles of ***** from Safeway.
I have to be good.
I have to recycle the bottles when I'm done.
I have to steal my fathers Vicodin.
I have to buy him coffee at least once a week.
I have to sleep during math class.
I have to stay up 'till 4, studying.
I have to be loud when I'm drunk.
I have to keep my mouth shut when I'm sober.
****, I forgot  which ones were good and which ones were bad.

He told me not to waste my breath.
You'll never be but second best.
Third best,
fourth best;
worse than the rest.

I'll cut off your right hand,
**** you to **** with the left.
Squeezing your **** 'till there's nothing left.

Hell yeah,
he's got swag  
he bought it from a man
who called him a ***.
In a little bag
he gave him so crack
But no! It slipped from his hands
down a storm drain
never to be seen again.

A war story is what he sold
"I spotted the ****** in a churches bell tower,
squeeze the trigger, one two, one two,
******* insurgents,
they never win,
****** to hell and all that's therein."

The devil would do anything for one last hit,
he lives in my veins, he don't give a ****.

He's a stranger, from out of town,
selling drugs to kids, dressed like a clown.
The cops chase him out but the damage is done,
but hell ******* yeah, the kids are having fun.

This isn't art,
this garbage is about poetic as the rez
I'm scrapin' from my pipe,
doing anything to get high.

The grass is greener on the other side,
you know it is,
my only question is with what they fertilize it with.
*******? GMO's? Something equally as destructive,
it's the truth, you know it is
*******, you say?
Bulltruth is what it is,
like it or not,
it is what it is.

Etched across my back,
each one about a fingers width apart,
and red, horizontal lines.
One set starts at the center
and spreads in either direction.
Another set starts in the same way,
yet spreads at an angle,
as though to make a triangle
with the ground,
if they were to continue.

Left by the nails on your fingers,
these marks will linger
for a while
and then fade.
Just as everything does.
Just as everything must.

And everyday I wake up,
take a swig from the big cup.
I know I gotta get ahold of myself,
understand that it's bad for my health
but you know,
you've been down here before,

and you got out,
put some money in your pocket
and decided you didn't owe me a cut.

Don't tell me it's too late
you know I can't wait.
I think it's best that you know
the depths are so far below,
yeah
and you know
nobody wants to go

until it's time to go.

I've only talked to you once.
We were in the school library.
I was cutting out on Biology and you were working ******* finishing a Chemistry lab write up.
I noticed how beautiful you looked as you walked up to the Librarian's desk and asked for a tissue to blow your nose.
Your dark hair was pulled back and your tights wrapped perfectly around your legs and you lipstick was the perfect shade of red and your boots came a quarter of the way up your shin and I never felt so emotionally detached from the world around me as I did in that moment, watching you blow your nose.

As you walked passed I said in a hush only you could hear "Love is more thicker than forget; more thinner than recall; more seldom than a wave is wet; more frequent than to fail."

And you stopped there, in that moment. You did not turn around but simply said "It is most mad and moonly, and less it shall unbe; than all the sea; which only is deeper than the sea."

And in that moment I never felt so found. I never felt so infinite.
We were connected by the meaning of our recitals
as well as by the soles of our shoes.

And when something is so truly beautiful it is lost.
And it must never be found.
And so we have not spoken again.
Yet we know so much about the other.

Don't let me get comfortable,
I could get used to this lifestyle.
Lazy days in the desert sun,
exciting nights with ****** fun.

Toss two hundred dollars on a dinner for 5,
It doesn't mean anything to them.
Don't miss the champagne divot stomp,
with a hat on your head, the heat is tangible.

Days spent with sand between your toes,
a Marlboro lite between your lips,
death on your mind,
all the while the dunes are full of life.

Dream of a girl who comes to you clothed
and leaves you with a guilty feeling of ******.
Don't forget your brandy.

Money is no object,
having enough things to buy is the problem
having people to buy things for is the problem.
****** is a problem.

****** is a problem,
but it seems to solve all other problems,
and when money means nothing,
****** is just a chance to feel.

Or not feel,
the desert doesn't care.
It is beautiful and deadly and will leave you searching for water, and the desert nights are unlike those of the mountains.
The mountains I'm a part of.
The mountains are forgiving, they are loving and caring and will not leave you searching for water, for it is a given.

~

Shadows can be scarier than darkness.

Silly You.                                
                                   Hypocrite
                                      ypocrite
        ­                               pocrite
                                        ocrite
          ­                               crite
                                          rite
            ­                               ite
                                           te
                                           e

You're such a hypocrite.
I don't know if it's intentional.
Only that it's true.

Oh, please don't drink, it's so bad for you, please, get better, please please blahblahblahblaaa...
Oh, don't mind me, just gonna get **** faced
just gonna finish the bottle,
and maybe another.
Don't mind me.
I'm not judging.
Silly yo, don't think that.
It's my birthday, whatever.

Well **** that.
Hypocrite.

I'll drink.
I'll write.
I'll hurt.
I'll do these things sober too, just watch me.
except drinking of course.
ha-ha.

Please, I'm an adult, blahblah, don't drink, blahblah

I'm sorry for everything.
Except for the things I'm not.
Which is, coincidentally, everything.

Being as the clouds is a marvelous way to be.
So light, so free.
Way up in the air, without a single care.
They'll drop their rain when they **** well please.
And they'll skip over the mountain without bumping their knees.
The sun will shine through them, casting it's noble rays upon earth.
The sunsets will be of a golden shade: A beautiful, natural art.

Fluffy and soft.
Whit and clean.
Being as a cloud
is a majestic way to be.
Being as free and unwavering as a cloud
sounds alright to me.

I remember this awful book I read once
about a year ago.
I can't remember the title but it was one of those terrible tragedies
revolving around young love.
But of course, it's a tragedy so everybody dies unhappy
and without love.
The reason I am thinking of it is because it is snowing and the entire setting of the book is covered in snow.

I had a day dream about you earlier today, in class.

We walked down the streets of some nondescript town covered in snow.
We looked behind us every so often at the zigzagged tracks we left behind us, as if they were following us, not ready to part.
After a while of walking we wandered into a cafe and sat in the window seat.
On the window we drew flowers out of the condensation.
We laughed as we sipped our hot chocolate and from a bag you produced a very nice woolen scarf, which you gave to me, and from my coat pocket I produced a very nice woolen beanie, which I gave to you.

I hope this isn't brash
and I hope this isn't obtrusive,
it's just that I've been wanting to tell you for some time
how very pretty you are.
Every time I think I have worked up the courage to do so, I cannot.
I think my daydream is a spawn of my yearn to tell you what I think
and thus this was born.
Call it poetry, prose, or whatever you like
but the truth is that this is communication
in it's most simple
and most complicated form.

I remember now, the book was called Ethan Frome, and it wasn't all that bad.

I'm as lit as a Christmas tree,
tomorrow is Saturday,
and, "yes please,
I would enjoy some chocolate milk."

tomorrow is Saturday,
and, "yes please,
I would enjoy some chocolate milk."
The clouds are thick,

and "yes please,
I would enjoy some chocolate milk."
The clouds are thick,
but you can still see the stars.

I would enjoy some chocolate milk. "
The clouds are thick,
but you can still see the stars.
Time spent waiting is time spent wasting,

The clouds are thick,
but you can still see the stars.
Time spent waiting is time spent wasting,
and waste not, want not.

but you can still see the stars.
Time spent waiting is time spent wasting,
and waste not, want not.
"I need what keeps a young man alive,

Time spent waiting is time spent wasting,
and waste not, want not.
"I need what keeps a young man alive,
and I'm saying I need it now"

and waste not, want.

I'm happy you enjoy drinking coffee and talking, because
I also enjoy talking and drinking coffee
and maybe we could do it together sometime? Tuesday, there is nothing I'd rather do than drink coffee and talk with you.

You're an intellectual,
you're a compassionate human being,
and your hair is to die for.

No, no, we're just getting coffee,
I'm not interested in anything more,
she's cute sure, but she would rip me to pieces. And besides, like I said last Thursday, I'm not interested in dating anyone. Why don't we just put on the Talking Heads and get high?

If I had a cigarette
for every time a teacher, parent, or loved one told me I was worthless,
I'd have enough cigarettes
to clear my head.

And that's it,
that's all I need to do.
Maybe if I could clear my head and get some ******* sleep I could stop being so worthless.
Just give me a break, and something to distort reality and I'll be fine.

Friends have often asked me what's my drug of choice.
They say they've seen me ******, tweaking, drunk, numb, but they can't tell which I enjoy most.
My answer hasn't changed since I started using.
My answer simply remains: anything that gets me high.
Anything that allows me to think in a different way,
anything that mercifully allows me to not think is my drug of choice.

I'm sick, I have a disease, but I don't need your help.
I don't sleep or eat, but I don't need your help.

You left yesterday,
and I found one of your hairs on my pillow this morning.
It was longer than my arm.

I tangled my fingers in your hair
and I whispered in your ear.
Just cheese ball things.

I told you many things
they were almost all true
and they were all cheese.
I told you I'll see you again (that one was true)

Wear a seat belt wild girl,
there are people who care about you.
Sleep well wild girl,
no need to tell me to speak with you tomorrow.

I promised you it'd be OK.
"It" being everything.
I promised you I'd see you again,
and I don't plan on lying to you.
I told you I'd write you ten thousand poems, excuse the inflation but it is true.

((Unfinished))

We always hear that life is a stage
but we were never prepared for the stages we would be thrown through.

I remember the before.
When we had never talked,
only noticed each other in the halls,
around town,
and at the theatre.

I remember the during.
When we'd purposefully get lost in the city we were both born in.
When I'd treat you to tea
and you'd to treat me to a kiss and sometimes a hundred more.

Now it's the after.
Thank God you're leaving town.
It will save me the embarrassment of those times I called with no response.
And it will save you the harassment of having to see me.

I want you pale and naked,
hips thrusting towards mine.
I want you on top of me
my hands on your *******.

The sunlight shines,
and the sun does set.
All I want is you
playing with my hair.

Feeding bad habbits with love,
and rotten tree stumps with alcohol mixed ***** and *****.

Gasp for air,
breathe in poison,
exhale C^02
and bad dreams.

******* with death
and disillusioned junkies desperate for one last hit.

Fall forward,
catch yourself,
repeat until you have
and reached your destination.

Breeding hope
and sadness until you're not sure what you're hoping for
and what you're sad about.

Sleep alone,
wake up alone,
and spend all day searching
for someone to be alone with.

a map scrawled in the dirt,
with a broken stick
held by a broken hand
controlled by a broken mind
being kept alive by a broken heart.

It's not beautiful
because it's broken
(stop romanticizing my primordial urges)
it's beautiful because it's the nature of it.

stop romanticizing my primordial urges.
I wanna hit and hurt and destroy and **** and **** and maim and desecrate and consummate end eradicate and emasculate and ******* and I wanna push you up against a wall and feel you on the inside and I wanna push her down a flight of stairs for making me feel the way I do for making my **** hard.

i want you to feel this

Love songs come in many forms,
the heartfelt pleas of lovers and friends, the eyes of disappointed children,
the sound of doors slamming,  
a mothers anguished cries.

They're not always coddling
and comforting,
sometimes they're loud and confronting and startling, like trumpets.

It's only when self love comes home that I'm able to recognize them for what they were and from where they came. They came from love and they are songs.

On the day of worship the Temple filled.
It had been three years since the Messiah left, and nobody had forgotten.

The Priests of Tek dawned their red robes
and Father John Misty took his place at the altar, his heart heavy yet full of chagrin.

He clears his throat,
my fellow children of yonder Year,
my sisters of Sand,
my brothers of Dust,
my lovers of Greed,
here now what I say,
for I speaketh not.

for now speaks The Shrike,
for now speaks The Lord of Atonement,
your God of Pain,
your mystifying Excellence of Death.

Father Misty reached into his black robe and drew forth a small child.
What life may have been left in the infant was destroyed when Father John Misty stuck the unmoving body onto the red spike protruding from the altar, the spike entering the body through the ****, and reaching an inch from the soft skull.

Father John Misty's voice took on a lower town, yet softer, not forgiving, yet all knowing.

This child has a name.
This child is Jesus Christ.
This child will grow as if alive.
And before the rough congregations eyes the child began to grow on the spire. The limbs first lengthened, than filled out. The child's chest expanded and the head grew bigger. Father Misty then hoisted him off of the spire, and set him, bleeding, before the congregation. The body began to shift, jerky movements before the skin appeared to bubble. A low gutteral sound began to emanate from now full grown man. He lifted his torso and head up and looked at each member of The Temple of Ten individually.

He spoke

I am your savior,
I am unfruitful death,
I am unwarranted pain,
I am money being cheated from the desperate man,
I am the brains taken from a lobotomite,
I am the destruction of a hurricane,
I am as dead as the gasoline you **** for,
I am as dead as you are.

I am Jesus Christ,
this is not the first time you've seen me,
this will not be the last.
You are allowed to die now.

And they did.

I'm getting better,
slowly, a day at a time.

I still think of you but not as often.
I remember the good times,
but they're always marked with
an aftertaste of longing.
Longing for what?

Friendship.


I can't listen to No Doubt
anymore without thinking of you.

I cried last night,
for the first time
since the day before.
I was thinking about the best thing to do
and i decided (as I have a hundred times before) that it's to give you space
and let you come back,
if that's what you want to do.
I cried because I don't want to lose you
but I don't want to push you away.

It's been a few weeks.
And it'll be a few more,
before that lovely girl
comes knocking at my door.

I am a patient boy,
I'll wait and I'll wait and I'll wait
for you.

Rap ah tat tat,
and rap ah tat tat,
please tell me when
my baby will be back.

Tick ah tick tock
and tick ah tick tock,
I long for the day
when I don't dread the tick of a clock.

The only thing left
in this mind of mine
is self destruction.

I know not how I strayed
so far from mother's teachings.
And I know not where I
shall end up.

I only know where I will find
my next fix at.
And I know how long
8 of these pills will last me.
(three days.)

I could place my finger
on this map
and tell you what country it is on.
Yet you could not point
at the crowd
and find one person who loves me.

Albert Camus
said that the only question that
truly matters
must be answered before
there can be discovery,
growth and love.
That question is whether or not to continue one's life.

Unlike the affects of vicodin and *****,
I know not the answer to this question.
And I suppose I will
find the answer,
or die trying.
Just as I did with the mixing
of my two favorite elixirs.
And what a lovely combination they have become.

If I hold the blankets close to my body,
and close my eyes,
with enough imagination and yearning,
I can feel your hands on my body,
your lips on my neck,
and your legs intertwined with mine.

"I guess I am doing a good job at biting my tongue."

If you only knew how much you were hurting me.
If only I could snap back with something equally as hurtful.

I wouldn't if I could.
It would be inappropriate.
Undeserved.
Regretted.

I'm sorry I've been so rude.
I'm sorry my cigarettes ran out,
I'm sorry I haven't been sleeping.
Plagued with nightmares of you.

I'm an *******.
But I will never apologize for that.
I will never apologize for who I am.
What I believe in.
What I do.

But most of all,
*I'm sorry

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.