Back when I was about ten or eleven, the only friend I had was the most beautiful girl I knew. Her name was Jessica and her and I did everything together. In school we were inseparable, always chit-chatting before, during and after classes. So much so that teachers bestowed upon us the annoying, yet endearing, encompassing nickname of "Jackica" - a combination of our names; Jack and Jessica.
     I was so thankful for her companionship, and thinking back it might have been a pretty uneven relationship, emotionally. I was an overweight and awkward Harry Potter fanboy and she was a cute little auburn-haired thing who could've won any Miss America Junior competition in the world, as far as I was concerned. She had the most piercing powder blue eyes. The kind that made my skin tingle and mouth curl up into a stupid smile at any given moment. I felt like she saw me, like she really saw ME. Not the blubbery flesh that coated my muscle and bones but what I was made of, the real me. And I loved her for that.
     Along with Jessica's physical blessings, she was also given an insatiable appetite for adventure. She loved to go to the park at night,  after the gates were locked and when everything was drenched in darkness. We'd hop the five foot chain-link fence and roam around the grounds. We'd go the water at the edge of the park and sit on the rocks, look up at the stars and take turns telling stories to each other with intent to scare the **** out of the other one.
     One humid night in mid-June, Jessica told a story that succeeded in making my skin-crawl. She always told decent scary stories, she was gifted in the art of fabricating tales of fright right on the spot, but this story really got to my core for some reason. I just felt uneasy as the words spilled from her mouth to my ears and with each sentence my muscles tightened and strained just from the mere tone of her voice as she told the story. She sounded serious, and she rarely did, even when telling these stories, but with this particular one it sounded like she really believed what she was saying was cold, hard truth.
     What she said was that she heard a story that her older brother's girlfriend had told her. It was about a house on the outskirts of town, placed just a few hundred yards from the mouth of the woods that lined our little suburban utopia. She went on to say that in the house was nothing all that scary. She said it was an old house, a very old house, as it was a log cabin that was built in the 1700s, when the town was first being settled. Supposedly, everything in the house was just as it was back then, little kerosene lamps sitting on home-mad oak tables. The maple-wood floors would moan and creak at the slightest hint of any weight being put on them. And then she said that no one had lived in the house since the man who built it died, around 1785.
     Needless to say, Jessica wrapped up the story by proclaiming that we had to find the house. And we had to go inside and see for ourselves what was so creepy about it. Being the scared, chubby little wimp that I was, I immediately rejected the idea. There was no way I was going to try to find a place that would only succeed in making me **** my pants in front of a girl, especially the one whom I'd placed the delusional label of "future girlfriend" on.  But, as I subconsciously expected, Jessica talked me into it with just a few graceful words: "I'll kiss you if you come with me."
    
     The very next Saturday night, Jessica and I put on some dark jeans and t-shirts and took the bus all the way to the last stop, the edge of town. We hopped off and right in front of the stop the woods were already waiting, I took a deep breath as Jessica's eyes lit up. She took my hand and pulled me as she ran, me clumsily waddling along behind her all the way to a little dirt pathway that paved the only marked entrance we could see. She asked me if I was ready and I shrugged, saying something like "I'm as ready as I'm ever going to be." And so we started down the path. As the tall trees swayed in the wind, I dragged my feet with  Jessica always about five feet ahead of me, as eager as ever. We walked for probably ten or twenty minutes before the foot of the cabin was before us.
     At first sight, it was a very old structure. I'd never seen anything like it outside of paintings in my history textbook and this Abe Lincoln documentary I saw on PBS. I never knew houses like that stood the test of time. But there it was before me, two stories high with wooden shutters clad in severely chipped paint and a big oak door that looked stronger than any door I'd ever seen. Jessica took my hand again, smiled enchantingly and rushed me forward.
     Once at the door, I was speechless. It didn't look as old as the rest of the house and whoever made it obviously meant for it to last a very long time, taking extreme care in carving it out impeccably and sanding it until it shined with a professional touch. Without a word, Jessica rapped on the door. Three hard times, and when no one answered after thirty seconds, she rapped again, and again. She shrugged and turned to me, asked if we should just go in. I said no and she frowned.
     "There's no way we came this far just to go back home with nothing," and then she wrapped her hand around the rusted doorknob and turned.
     The door opened with no hesitation as she pushed it all the way in. She stepped inside, and I followed. The first thing I noticed inside the cabin was the creaking floors. They creaked louder and longer with each step, affirming that part of the story, making my blood run cold. We looked around, going from room to room with wide eyes. We were amazed that we made it, that we got inside and now we were actually investigating a place that no one else supposedly had gone before. Truth be told, though, it was nothing special. There wasn't much at all to see, save for a few tables, the creaking floors and some very old paintings on the wall. We were just leaving when we noticed something on a table nearest the big oak door. It was a metal box with a small lock fastened to the front of it.
     "We have to open it," Jessica proclaimed after a second of curious inspection.
     "There's no way were going to find the key," I told her.
     "So we'll break the lock, Jack. Duh," she replied in her sassiest tone.
     I just shook my head as she grabbed the box and began to furiously slam it in the wooden table. The sound echoed through the house, exacerbating it and making me shiver from head to toe.
     "I don't know if you should keep-" but my sentence was cut off my the lock flying off the box and clinking onto the floor below.
Jessica smiled again, very pleased with herself and looked to me.
     "Wonder what's inside...," She said, lifting the top half of the box open.
     After an initial and cough-inducing puff of thick dust subsided, the contents of the box were revealed. It was a letter, written on old-school parchment in heavy ink. In neatly laid Victorian script, the likes of which I had never seen so simultaneously neat and scattered, like it was written in a hurry or during a time of distress, was a love letter. Well, a kind of love letter. It was addressed to a woman named Tania and it was signed by a William. It told the story of how William had loved Tania since they were children, and Tania was now to be married to a Pastor named Hensley. William told Tania how he couldn't bear the thought of her ever being with anyone else and that the fact that she could never truly be his was killing him. Literally. He ended the note by confessing his plan to **** himself.
     I took a step back, but Jessica just stood at the table with her eyes glued to the crumbling parchment in her hands.
     "I'm leaving," I said after a few moments, mulling over the sorrow that this poor man must've felt. I headed out the door, Jessica following. The walk back through the woods to the bus stop I couldn't get this feeling of dread from subsiding. It seemed like I felt what William felt, but not in a sympathetic sort of way. It felt like I was William and the pain he felt was actually my pain. And then I noticed that, rolled up tightly in her fist, Jessica had taken the letter with her.
     "Why'd you take that," I said, sounding thoroughly upset. "That's not yours to take, go bring it back!"
     "No way. There was no way I was going there and coming back with nothing to show for it," she said, gripping the letter tightly, her knuckles almost whitening.
     I knew how stubborn Jessica could be and I knew whatever I said probably wouldn't even phase her in the slightest so I did what I did best and just shrugged it off. I found myself wishing I could shrug off the terrible feeling the letter put deep inside me just as easily as I could Jessica's stubbornness.

     Over time, Jessica and I lost touch, as kids of that age often do. I grew up, lost weight and opened up, making more friends and acquaintances, no longer hanging onto the thought of Jessica being my only love. I didn't talk to Jessica all that much. Just once in a while we'd meet up and have a chat over some coffee or pizza. We had both changed and morphed into young adults with different agendas and dreams and I had no problem with that. But on one such meeting, Jessica began to worry me. She said that every now and then she'd open her desk drawer and take the piece of parchment out and read it. Over and over again. And lately, she had been opening the drawer more and more, she said that she felt drawn to it. Like something about it made her feel this deep-seated dread that no horror movie or scary story had ever made her feel. She said that she felt like the letter was beginning to take a toll on her. And, by the look of her, it didn't seem like she was lying or kidding around like she always used to love to do. She had dark circles underneath her once striking eyes, which were now darker and had taken on an odd and ominous color. I was scared for her. And I told her so but she hugged me and assured me she was alright. I wanted to believe her, and I tried to, hugging her back and telling her I'd talk to her soon. But when she turned her back I knew something was very wrong.

     I'm writing this now because a few weeks ago Jessica's mom gave me a call. When her number came up on my cell phone, I think I knew, deep down, e actor why I was getting this call but I pushed the thought away and said hello. Jessica's mother called to tell me that a few days before Jessica had gone missing. The only indication to her whereabouts was a note she left with the words "cabin at the edge of town", and below that, instructions on how to get there. Her mother said she took the note and hopped in her car immediately, and made it to the cabin. She said she was breathless by the time she got to the cabin but forged on and barged inside and looked around. She said she found nothing and was about to leave when she noticed a small door behind the big oak door she had swung open to get inside. She opened the little door to find a stairwell. She climbed it, calling Jessica's name all the way, sobbing and wiping tears from her eyes. At the top of the stairs was the attic. And she said she almost died herself when she saw Jessica. She was hanging from a wooden rafter on the ceiling. And next to her was a severely decayed skeleton, dangling from a rope only a few inches away.

Sitting in my room
A ****** is the moon
I stare back at her
Gone when I wake at noon
She's always gone too soon

Who do you run to?
When you just want comfort
When you just want to be cured
I just want to be cured
I just want to be cured

I saw her light fading
Through veiled window shades
That unbelievable glow
Kills everything else the Earth made
I don't know where she came from
Heaven, Hell or in-between
All I know is that what she does
Is shock me, thrill me, rope me up and **** me

The genesis of such a creature
Is a mystery to me
Did she crawl out of a hole
And sprout like a flower?
Or was she always there
Will she always be as beautiful as she is now?
I know something like that
Is in the eye of the ******
But how could you refuse to admit
That this thing is special?
That it's not normal?
That you've never seen such witchcraft?

Oh, Anxiety
You **** me
Over and over
With no warning
You show up
With open arms
I've got no luck
I see you every day
Wouldn't mind at all
To simply walk and talk
Without misstep or fall
And forgetting all about you

Anxiety, Anxiety
Where from do you come?
Why can't we
Ever seem a little smarter than dumb?
Killing my core and my head
Dropping my body as it turns to lead

You're a *****
And I love it
You're a butcher
And I want it
You're the worst
And I love you

Pound for pound.
Round for round.
Sight and sound.
Look what I've found.

Love and loss.
A stupid coin toss.
The air is the boss.
Our lives are the cost.

No one knows.
But everybody shows.
****** bows and heart-shaped arrows.
A blow to the head and a broken nose.

Running to the end.
Wonder who they're gonna send.
They never cared to lend.
Or to see if the pieces would mend.

Images flashing
Flashing
With
Recognizing
Eyes
And
Registering
Brain

Played over
Over
Through
Passageways
By way
Of
Electromagnetic
Impulse
And
Firing
Neurons

Within
Within those
Is a
Deeper understanding
As
Cerebral
Cortex
Takes hold
And forms
Within
Profoundness
Insidiousness
Forever

Back when I was about ten or eleven, the only friend I had was the most beautiful girl I knew. Her name was Jessica and her and I did everything together. In school we were inseparable, always chit-chatting before, during and after classes. So much so that teachers bestowed upon us the annoying, yet endearing, encompassing nickname of "Jackica" - a combination of our names; Jack and Jessica. I was so thankful for her companionship, and thinking back it might have been a pretty uneven relationship, emotionally. I was an overweight and awkward Harry Potter fanboy and she was a cute little auburn-haired thing who could've won any Miss America Junior competition in the world, as far as I was concerned. She had the most piercing powder blue eyes. The kind that made my skin tingle and mouth curl up into a stupid smile at any given moment. I felt like she saw me, like she really saw ME. Not the blubbery flesh that coated my muscle and bones but what I was made of, the real me. And I loved her for that. Along with Jessica's physical blessings, she was also given an insatiable appetite for adventure. She loved to go to the park at night, after the gates were locked and when everything was drenched in darkness. We'd hop the five foot chain-link fence and roam around the grounds. We'd go the water at the edge of the park and sit on the rocks, look up at the stars and take turns telling stories to each other with intent to scare the **** out of the other one. One humid night in mid-June, Jessica told a story that succeeded in making my skin-crawl. She always told decent scary stories, she was gifted in the art of fabricating tales of fright right on the spot, but this story really got to my core for some reason. I just felt uneasy as the words spilled from her mouth to my ears and with each sentence my muscles tightened and strained just from the mere tone of her voice as she told the story. She sounded serious, and she rarely did, even when telling these stories, but with this particular one it sounded like she really believed what she was saying was cold, hard truth. What she said was that she heard a story that her older brother's girlfriend had told her. It was about a house on the outskirts of town, placed just a few hundred yards from the mouth of the woods that lined our little suburban utopia. She went on to say that in the house was nothing all that scary. She said it was an old house, a very old house, as it was a log cabin that was built in the 1700s, when the town was first being settled. Supposedly, everything in the house was just as it was back then, little kerosene lamps sitting on home-mad oak tables. The maple-wood floors would moan and creak at the slightest hint of any weight being put on them. And then she said that no one had lived in the house since the man who built it died, around 1785. Needless to say, Jessica wrapped up the story by proclaiming that we had to find the house. And we had to go inside and see for ourselves what was so creepy about it. Being the scared, chubby little wimp that I was, I immediately rejected the idea. There was no way I was going to try to find a place that would only succeed in making me **** my pants in front of a girl, especially the one whom I'd placed the delusional label of "future girlfriend" on. But, as I subconsciously expected, Jessica talked me into it with just a few graceful words: "I'll kiss you if you come with me." The very next Saturday night, Jessica and I put on some dark jeans and t-shirts and took the bus all the way to the last stop, the edge of town. We hopped off and right in front of the stop the woods were already waiting, I took a deep breath as Jessica's eyes lit up. She took my hand and pulled me as she ran, me clumsily waddling along behind her all the way to a little dirt pathway that paved the only marked entrance we could see. She asked me if I was ready and I shrugged, saying something like "I'm as ready as I'm ever going to be." And so we started down the path. As the tall trees swayed in the wind, I dragged my feet with Jessica always about five feet ahead of me, as eager as ever. We walked for probably ten or twenty minutes before the foot of the cabin was before us. At first sight, it was a very old structure. I'd never seen anything like it outside of paintings in my history textbook and this Abe Lincoln documentary I saw on PBS. I never knew houses like that stood the test of time. But there it was before me, two stories high with wooden shutters clad in severely chipped paint and a big oak door that looked stronger than any door I'd ever seen. Jessica took my hand again, smiled enchantingly and rushed me forward. Once at the door, I was speechless. It didn't look as old as the rest of the house and whoever made it obviously meant for it to last a very long time, taking extreme care in carving it out impeccably and sanding it until it shined with a professional touch. Without a word, Jessica rapped on the door. Three hard times, and when no one answered after thirty seconds, she rapped again, and again. She shrugged and turned to me, asked if we should just go in. I said no and she frowned. "There's no way we came this far just to go back home with nothing," and then she wrapped her hand around the rusted doorknob and turned. The door opened with no hesitation as she pushed it all the way in. She stepped inside, and I followed. The first thing I noticed inside the cabin was the creaking floors. They creaked louder and longer with each step, affirming that part of the story, making my blood run cold. We looked around, going from room to room with wide eyes. We were amazed that we made it, that we got inside and now we were actually investigating a place that no one else supposedly had gone before. Truth be told, though, it was nothing special. There wasn't much at all to see, save for a few tables, the creaking floors and some very old paintings on the wall. We were just leaving when we noticed something on a table nearest the big oak door. It was a metal box with a small lock fastened to the front of it. "We have to open it," Jessica proclaimed after a second of curious inspection. "There's no way were going to find the key," I told her. "So we'll break the lock, Jack. Duh," she replied in her sassiest tone. I just shook my head as she grabbed the box and began to furiously slam it in the wooden table. The sound echoed through the house, exacerbating it and making me shiver from head to toe. "I don't know if you should keep-" but my sentence was cut off my the lock flying off the box and clinking onto the floor below. Jessica smiled again, very pleased with herself and looked to me. "Wonder what's inside...," She said, lifting the top half of the box open. After an initial and cough-inducing puff of thick dust subsided, the contents of the box were revealed. It was a letter, written on old-school parchment in heavy ink. In neatly laid Victorian script, the likes of which I had never seen so simultaneously neat and scattered, like it was written in a hurry or during a time of distress, was a love letter. Well, a kind of love letter. It was addressed to a woman named Tania and it was signed by a William. It told the story of how William had loved Tania since they were children, and Tania was now to be married to a Pastor named Hensley. William told Tania how he couldn't bear the thought of her ever being with anyone else and that the fact that she could never truly be his was killing him. Literally. He ended the note by confessing his plan to **** himself. I took a step back, but Jessica just stood at the table with her eyes glued to the crumbling parchment in her hands. "I'm leaving," I said after a few moments, mulling over the sorrow that this poor man must've felt. I headed out the door, Jessica following. The walk back through the woods to the bus stop I couldn't get this feeling of dread from subsiding. It seemed like I felt what William felt, but not in a sympathetic sort of way. It felt like I was William and the pain he felt was actually my pain. And then I noticed that, rolled up tightly in her fist, Jessica had taken the letter with her. "Why'd you take that," I said, sounding thoroughly upset. "That's not yours to take, go bring it back!" "No way. There was no way I was going there and coming back with nothing to show for it," she said, gripping the letter tightly, her knuckles almost whitening. I knew how stubborn Jessica could be and I knew whatever I said probably wouldn't even phase her in the slightest so I did what I did best and just shrugged it off. I found myself wishing I could shrug off the terrible feeling the letter put deep inside me just as easily as I could Jessica's stubbornness. Over time, Jessica and I lost touch, as kids of that age often do. I grew up, lost weight and opened up, making more friends and acquaintances, no longer hanging onto the thought of Jessica being my only love. I didn't talk to Jessica all that much. Just once in a while we'd meet up and have a chat over some coffee or pizza. We had both changed and morphed into young adults with different agendas and dreams and I had no problem with that. But on one such meeting, Jessica began to worry me. She said that every now and then she'd open her desk drawer and take the piece of parchment out and read it. Over and over again. And lately, she had been opening the drawer more and more, she said that she felt drawn to it. Like something about it made her feel this deep-seated dread that no horror movie or scary story had ever made her feel. She said that she felt like the letter was beginning to take a toll on her. And, by the look of her, it didn't seem like she was lying or kidding around like she always used to love to do. She had dark circles underneath her once striking eyes, which were now darker and had taken on an odd and ominous color. I was scared for her. And I told her so but she hugged me and assured me she was alright. I wanted to believe her, and I tried to, hugging her back and telling her I'd talk to her soon. But when she turned her back I knew something was very wrong. I'm writing this now because a few weeks ago Jessica's mom gave me a call. When her number came up on my cell phone, I think I knew, deep down, e actor why I was getting this call but I pushed the thought away and said hello. Jessica's mother called to tell me that a few days before Jessica had gone missing. The only indication to her whereabouts was a note she left with the words "cabin at the edge of town", and below that, instructions on how to get there. Her mother said she took the note and hopped in her car immediately, and made it to the cabin. She said she was breathless by the time she got to the cabin but forged on and barged inside and looked around. She said she found nothing and was about to leave when she noticed a small door behind the big oak door she had swung open to get inside. She opened the little door to find a stairwell. She climbed it, calling Jessica's name all the way, sobbing and wiping tears from her eyes. At the top of the stairs was the attic. And she said she almost died herself when she saw Jessica. She was hanging from a wooden rafter on the ceiling. And next to her was a severely decayed skeleton, dangling from a rope only a few inches away.u

Lay next to me stare into the abyss/
Hearing you breathing, a heart beat I did not miss/
Just relax babe while I set the record, play the hits/
      Drift away, lay away, they stay away, we have our fits/
                                                                ­ Tell me about your family, when was the last time you saw your little sis?/
You **** your shotgun skirt, lift your shirt and ******* to bits/
                                                          Puttin­g our clothes back on and you look at me, make it clear you're still a wicked witch/

Hi, I'm Jackie. I am 18 years old and I'm a senior at Brennan Burton High School in Frederickson, New York. Frederickson is the suburban wasteland that you've doubtlessly seen and read about in countless movies, TV shows and books concerned with life in these mind-numbingly dull pockets of land. If you can even call it "life", that is. However, I find that the aforementioned depictions of the people and happenings in towns like mine are, more often than not, completely wrong. It makes me wonder if the people writing these shows and films have ever taken the initiative to actually venture out of their modest little apartments in SoHo to see for themselves what an actual suburbia feels like. But, I digress... Sort of. The purpose of my story is to try to prove to you that what you think about suburbia is probably all wrong, or mostly wrong.
     Now, where to begin?
     OK. I live in a two-story house that was built in the wake of World War II. It was one of those houses that government built for the soldiers who were returning from the war to live happy and prosperous lives in with their smiling families. That was a long time ago though, and now it seems like most of the houses in my town are occupied by single mothers, single fathers or familial units that include a step-mother or step-father. And my family is no different, being made up of my father, Henry (everyone calls him Hank) and my little brother Huxley. My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer only a few months after Huxley was born. They did everyting they could for her, but the cancer was advanced and she passed away only a few months after her initial diganosis. I loved my mother. She was a strong woman, she went to college, got a well paying job and gave birth to two kids. Sounds like a busy life, especially when you take into account that she was only 38 when she died.
     Thinking about her too much kind of shifts me into slow-mo, so I'm moving on. I love my dad, too. He's had a hard life. He grew up in a hard part of the city and had to drop out of school to start working at around 14 or 15. Not too long after he started working to help his family out, his father disappeared. Supposedly, my grandfather was involved with some sketchy people and, without a doubt, probably was involved in some sketchy dealings. Anyway, after he disappeared, my father was forced to work 18 hour days, 7 days a week. My grandmother was an alcoholic and a pill popper before my grandfather disappeared, and afterward it only got worse. One day when my father got home from work, he found his mother drowning in her own ***** on the kitchen floor. He rushed her to hospital, but it was too late. And to top it all off, when he got home, floating in the inch deep puke, he found her suicide note. That's when my father decided to pack his bags and move out of the city. Soon, he found work in an autobody shop and started saving money. Not long after that, his boss introduced him to his daughter who was around the same age. His boss's daughter turned out to be my mom.
     Sorry if all this background is annoying, but I figure if you want to read my story, you might as well know my parents' stories too. After all, if there were no them, then there would be no me. But yeah, my father. He's a good guy. Always quick to make light of any situation. You'll never catch him bringing the emotional air of a situation down. That;s just not how he operates, and now that I think about it, I can see why. If he had made a habit of that, he no doubt would've ended up like his mother. I'm very appreciative of him and everything that he does, I just wish I got around to tell him that more often.
     Then there's my brother Huxley. He's 9 years old, in the 4th grade and was named after Aldous Huxley, the author of Brave New World, my mother's favorite book. The name is eerily fitting too, almost as if his being named after a famous author was a foreshadowing of sorts. While his best friends are playing the latest PlayStation game, Huxley is devouring a novel. Basically, if you put it in front of him, he'll ****** it up and be quoting it the next time you see him. He's a smart kid, a really smart kid and I couldn't be prouder as an older sister, especially these days, when the only ting kids read are text messages and Facebook statuses. Whenever I go to the library to finish schoolwork, I always try to pick something up for him. The last one I got him was Carrie by Stephen King, one of my favorite authors. After he finished it though, he told me he'd much rather me bring him home another Nicholas Sparks book. I can't say you would ever hear those words coming out of my mouth, but I admire the kid's openness. I picked him up The Choice a few days ago, and when I checked in on him that night his smile was never brighter. He quickly kissed my cheek and told me he only had a few chapters left so I had to leave him be. All in all, he's quiet, shy and sensitive and I love him for that.

Spilled directly from my heart and soul
To you
From some year
In the past
Something
I just need you to know

I'm but twenty years of age
And I know nothing
Of the world
And nothing
Of living
Except
What I do know
Which is close to
I admit

Nothing

When compared
To great lives
Lived many times
Longer
Stronger
Greater
Larger
And even
Shorter
Weaker
Lesser
Smaller
But I am
Who I am
And, again
I've only lived
A fraction
Of what is considered
A
"Life"

But lately
I have an urge
Not really and urge
More of a
Want
But a strong
Want
And that
Want
Is
I want to raise a child

Strange
Yes
In times past
I'd be considered
A man
I'd be expected
To have a job
That paid well
And
The built-in
Instinct
To fight for
My life
And the lives
Of those I cherish
Deeply
But
On the inside
I know
I'm but a boy

I am not a man
By any stretch of the imagination
I am not a man
By any means at all
But
Out of nowhere
Over the past
Year
This sensation
Has been getting stronger
To have a child
And raise it
With someone
I love
A burning love
A simultaneously
Firy, cool, encapsulating, enrapturing, hexing, invincible, forever
Kind of love
And to raise it
With their best interests
For the future
And to impant
In them
All the love
In my heart
And have them know
That
As long as I'm around
Everything
Everything
Will be alright
Everything
Will work out
The way it's meant to

Because it's true
And I know it
It's just one of the things
These twenty years
Has taught this boy
However
I wish to give
This child
Everything
And
All
And
In order to do so
I have to establish
What I need to
Find an adequate
Source of monetary income
And
As hard as that seems
In this day and age
I will
Somehow
I will find a way
If only
For the life
Of my future
Child

I told myself
To think before I acted
But I didn't
Now I wish it all away
I threw myself
On a ****** slab
I told myself
That you would be gentle
But now I'm bleeding
Like they were bleeding
And I can't seem to stitch up my wounds

I've ****** up
And I'm about to fall
I've ****** up
And now I'm falling
I've ****** up
And I've fallen
I've ****** up
And I can't get up
I've ****** up
Because I fell for you

11:52PM
In a hookah bar
Drunk
Writing from the heart
On an old couch
Made of leather
In a room filled with smoke
I don't wanna stop drinking
But I'm gonna regret it tomorrow
If I don't
Oh well
****

Mickey Mouse is so
Scary
So one-dimensional
So simple
So odd

That eerie grin
And his three fingered hands
Each with a clean, white glove
Slipped over them

Why gloves?
Why white gloves?
What about his fingers?
Why would a mouse need fingers?
And why does he only have three on each hand?

Is he some type of ungodly
Ghastly and disfigured
Form of a man?
Or did someone
Drop a rat's DNA in with
A man's in a test tube?
Nuclear radiation, maybe?
Other-worldly being?
Resident of a parallel universe?
Or we're mice and/or rats walking around
Smiling relentlessly, donning red trousers
White gloves, and cursed with two three-fingered hands
When the dinosaurs
Were eating each other?

All things are trivial
Loneliness just temporary
Love is worth it
And hate is pure waste

People come to you
And people go from you
Situational indifference
Nature is emotionless

So go about your day
Stay up and merrily
Let the river flow
But let the memory stay

Fat women with
Fur coats
To warm their overfed
Heaps of mass
Holding overpriced
Elongated, mechanical strings
Attached to their
Mouse-like dogs
That wear clothes
That cost more
Than my entire outfit
Shirt, jeans, boots, jacket
Combined

They yap to small devices
Glued to their ears
Like instruments
Of envy and jealousy
Yelling at their husbands
Or boyfriends
Or pool boys
Who haven't done their job
Either paying for whatever they want
Or neglecting to net out
That last nat
From their jacuzzis
Where they sip white wine
And sizzle in soapy water
Before getting out
And slipping on shoes
Made by kids
In Cambodia
Who have never held
A hundred dollar bill

What is wrong
Who is right
What is it
That's been done
Here
None of it makes sense
To me

Once in a while
A flower blooms
Sprouts, shouts
In a dismal, dark room

And it makes
Me wonder
What if (just what if?)
It's birth hadn't been such a blunder

How would things be different?
How would that flower's life
Have been altered?
Relegated to obscurity from the first click of the knife

Was that flower given
That situation
Because it was able to handle it?
Was it meant to be a sensation?

And then I think
What if it was just random
As trivial as a grain of sand
In the midst of the worldwide kingdom?

Trivial, random
Sensational, remarkable
I'm just don't know
Which way I'm meant to turn the table

Ahh-choo, ahh-choo
Don't have a clue
Ahh-choo, ahh-choo
I don't like you

Blast through the door
Snap your fingers to the trigger pull
You want some more?
Got some lead, give you a belly full
Eat up, yum yum
Nutritious like a vitamin
Gonna give you one
Or two, three, four - Seventh deadly sin

Tasted the **** at the bottom of the well
Tried too hard in case you couldn't tell
Heard you mumble something under your breath
So I beat you mentally 'til you got nothin' left
Waiting for the inevitable
Ding, ding, times up, now you're moldable
Crash, bang
It's all the same
You've always been the one to blame

All poured out and dry
Peroxide drips in bare splits
Blood means nothing good

She's so sweet
She makes my teeth hurt
Open cavity

I try to take

Only as much as I can give

Restoring balance

Is a way of life

Things seem so trivial
When the words fall
From your mouth
Onto the ground
Feeding the greenery

"Oh!"

Signal from wound to brain
Pain from lips to ears

Feet shuffle and stop
Water runs and ceases

Red drops on silver
Light bouncing off

Eyes winced
Fingers squeeze slice

To the bathroom
In the cabinet

Out comes a bandage
Over it wraps

Heart still racing
Blood still pumping
Pain still present

Raw pulsation
Rough sensation
Pure frustration

I was tripping, tripping
Over to Vietnam
Their hands were ripping, slipping
In hot blood
While I asked how many people they've shot
How many kids?
How many villages burnt with a fire so hot
So cold, the beers cracked open
Sweating like the citizens trying to stay alive
Rage trapped in their heart-like pig pens

I was told to take pictures
Told to record every explanation
Every lieutenant major gave a lecture
As calves were sewn to thighs
Thighs sewn, stitched
The thighs piled high
In buckets of ****** ice

I might have a son
I visited a madam
Down in la Drang Valley
Should've kept it in my pants
Now my sons running naked
Through streets paved in fresh blood
Pros ably pushing drugs or kidnapping women
Selling women
Because his mother was sold to me
In Vietnam

My body aches
Killing me, the pain
Everyone's a fake
I need to get myself drained
Of everything that causes this
Of all the loneliness

Nothing kills me like you do
And nothing brings me light but you
Weighing so heavily on my conscience
You own my heart, every ******* ounce
You're my blood, my brain, my very soul
No one's ever had such a hold on me
I know this won't end well
We're a suicide mission from Hell
And no one can break us
Though they've been known to shake us up

Maybe I'm playing the wrong game
With the wrong attitude
Things just ain't the same
Throwing curveballs to the dirt
Feeling, soaking in the hurt

You spit in your palm
And look deep in my eyes
Put your hand behind your back
And keep spoon feeding me lies
Well it couldn't hurt to try

Please just hold tight
While I **** back to swing
Pulling for the fences
While mending my wings
To fly through these clouded, muddy things

Knowing my sordid past
When it comes to this game
Making us last
Won't come without pain
And it's a **** shame

My great-grandmother lived in a time when if you sang too loudly in a public place
Such as on the bus
With no audible music anyone else could hear
You were thrown away
Reported by the sanest of citizens
Locked away in the mental ward of Bellevue Asylum
By your own family

She was an alcoholic
Well, she was Italian
As was that whole part of my family
And Italians like wine
And she liked her wine
Maybe a little bit too much
My grandfather said that by six o'clock
Everyone in the house was screaming
Throwing things
Alcohol-tinged, infant-like fits
The lot of them
Drunk
Every night of the year

But my great-grandmother
She was the only one who carried her drink
In a little metal flask
Tucked in her ragged coat
Took it with her on the bus
On the way to work at a hotel
Where people with enough money
To boost the world's economy
Slept, ate and yelled at her
For forgetting to put a mint on their pillow once
But she just hummed away
Took the flack with a smile
Sipped her poison
And rode the bus back to work
The next day
Drunk
Singing
La Donna e' Mobile

One day though
Her brothers caught up to her
As she was boarding that bus
She was singing again
And smiled
Asked them what they were doing there
And they looked at her
Smiled
And smacked her

They threw her in their car
And took her to Bellvue
In 1947
When the idea of mental health
Was shrouded in ignorance
And scrutiny
And the word "medicine"
Meant electric-shocks to the brain
Submerging in below freezing
Ice-tanks
And
Fiddling around
In people's brains
Through their eye-sockets
With screwdrivers
"Lobotomies"

My grandfather was born in 1945
He was only two when they took his mother away
And only three
When they told him she died
Rotting in the asylum
Experiments done to her
That my family will never know the nature of
Never know how much pain
She ****** up
Never know if the cause of death
Was actually "cirrhosis of the liver"
Or
An officially administered
Botched
Brain-****

Sitting silently
by the
old willow tree,
I heard a knocking
through the thick,
rustic bark.

My thoughts drifted,
thawing the frigid
quiet in my mind.
For there was naught behind,
nor in front,
of the old willow tree.

"What could it be,"
my mind asked me.
"And from where is it coming from?"
And then, from above,
there was a deep, low hum.
A light flashed, and I was
blind.

Touch me
And sift
Through layers
Road rough and silky smooth
Feel the intricacies
Of love,
Hate & fear
That reside deep
Inside entwined
With biological
Messes
Through blood
Sweat & tears
Who's main function
Is the hormonal
Rush
That one is
Impressed on
With each
Word
And
Thought
And
Touch

I had a dream about you
On a night that I thought would never end
I walked over to talk to you
Don't take it the wrong way if I just wanna be friends
After all that's happened over the years
I can't take anymore tears

I know you like to do your own thing
And I need my independence
It just never seems we are ready at the same time
Never heard of interdependence
The classic way of doing things
Was never for me and clearly isn't for you
So lets just be true and cool
But were both fools

Back in the '40's
My great-grandma used to sing
On the bus

Everyday
Never the same song
Never to anyone in particular

She just used to get on
Walk down the isle
Sit down and start to sing

After my grandfather was born
They put my great-grandma
In the hospital

The loony bin
The cackle barn
The mental institution

In there she got really sick
They said her liver was failing
She liked wine

And soon
She died
They said it was cirhossis

But to this day
That woman haunts
Me

Was she crazy?
Was she just a drunk?
Was she crazy and decided to self-medicate with the alcohol?

I've tried to find records of her
On the internet
And in attics and basements

But nothing ever seems to
Come up
Nothing wants to be found

At least not yet
In the meantime, I'm stuck here
Wondering

A man with a big black eye strides down the street
People nearly come to a full stop when they pass him
The man keeps walking, head up, confident as can be
People whisper and stare, some even point
"Wonder what happened to him," one man whispers to his girlfriend
"He probably deserved it," the girlfriend says

Yesterday, the man came home from work
He didn't have a black eye then
He loosened his tie and made some coffee
And his cell phone rang so he picked it up
"Michael, you have to get over here," the desperate voice breathed
So Micheal put down his mug, grabbed his keys and rushed out the door

When Michael got to his destination, he rushed to the front door and knocked on it
He knocked and knocked but no one answered
Then he heard the screaming
So he lifted his foot and kicked the door in
His girlfriend was screaming
Her ex-boyfriend had apparently decided to pay her a visit

Her ex was a big guy, tattoos littered his massive arms
And he had Michael's girlfriend by her hair, yanking her down, dragging her around
Michael quickly approached, the ex swung his elbow around
Smacked Michael's eye and Michael hit the ground
But when Michael got back up, he brought with him his own limbs
And struck his girlfriend's ex until he no longer knew the meaning of sin

I am running
Brushing bushels of roses and daisies and sunflowers
Treading ground tread to the degree of infinity by lives lived before me
Through the green fields and under the arms of wise, old trees
And I stop under one of them

I settle down and take a seat
Quick breaths become slow and purposeful
Taking in the life around me and breathing out, feeding it
The orange, red, purple sky above looks down on everything, on me
My breath fuses with the waves of a life continously complimenting all that I see

I love sleep
Don't get me wrong
Sleep feeds me
Without it I'm pretty much useless
Batteries always need to be charged eventually, right?

Sometimes I'll snuggle up and close my eyes
See the wonderous things that reside nightly
Behind my eyelids as my brain plays
The projector, eyelids play the screen
And I'll awaken feeling like I've just returned
From a land of fortune and prosperity
Like Columbus after he returns to Italy


But from time to time
It gets really, incredibly difficult
To willingly fall victim to the beautiful Sandman
And I'm left squirming uncomfortably
In the center of wrinkled sheets and blankets

Spinning endlessly between reality and dreams
My mind running a marathon through rough
Terrain and hopping hurdles that keep
Growing taller and wider and more menacing
I'm flashing beacons desperately trying to
Get the attention of the ambassador of slumber

And sometimes  I'll "wake up"
As the Sun peaks it's God-like face
Over the unassuming horizon
Rays of warm light taking refuge where
The moonlight once settled and called its home
And I'm left there, head in hand, eyes nearly
****** and feeling like I've never slept a second
In my life

You let go of past judgments
And embrace new paths of thought
Running through space
Time seems something for which you should have fought
But now it's done and it's over
You're skin doesn't greet you with the same glow
Soon, I assume, it'll hurt when I bend to mend the lawn mower
To trim the grasses that have grown while you looked away

Nothing seems right
A new perspective on space, time
I think now I'm more prone to fight
Rather than run and hide
Like I used to
Like I used to

Girl in a Glass Case
                                                            ­                By John DeVito

Katherine Green probably had it more together than most of the girls I knew in high school. She was a star on the track team, she continuously made the honor roll and she was involved in more than a few extracurriculars. She was energetic, open and always quick to joke. She was also a die-hard feminist and any pseudo-negative remark made against women, in her presence, never went unpunished. She’d stab with her tongue and, more than a few times, kick an unsuspecting guy in the *****. She was a little crazy, maybe, but she never denied it.
I met her in a journalism class. While I was preoccupied with researching my favorite directors and writing movie reviews, she’d be researching women’s rights and the latest new clippings concerned with Hillary Clinton, wronged wives and successful female business owners. We both had our obsessions, and quietly respected each other for them. Since we would sit next to each other every day, we started talking. We laughed, joked and enjoyed each other’s company to the point that the teacher took notice and would say things like, “When’s the wedding?” And, “Get a room already.” We’d just laugh it off.
Soon enough, we actually started dating. Being my first girlfriend, I treasured her. Every time my thoughts drifted her way, a grin would take over my face and my body would feel like it was floating. I loved her, if only for the way she made me feel, and I would’ve done anything for her. And I did. I’d walk through the heat, the rain, the cold, sickness and sleeplessness to her house whenever she’d call and ask me to come over. Whenever I would get there, I was greeted either by her mother or her father. Her mother was a German immigrant. She was short, but stern and rigid, both physically and mentally. She’d always tell Katherine not to “make him bad” and say that I was a “good boy”. It made me wonder what kind of past Katherine had with other boys, but I’d quickly let the thoughts leave my head. Katherine made me feel like I was worth something and that I was special, and that was enough for me… But I digress.
Her father was New York City detective. He also had the capability of being quite stern, like his wife, but had a more playful disposition. He was nicer to me than I ever imagined a girl’s father to be to her new boyfriend, and for that I was thankful. Most of the times I came over, he’d either be watching the Jets game, the Knicks game or some type of criminal investigation show (usually Law & Order). He seemed like a pretty normal and cool dad to me, and I respected him not only because he was a cop but because he seemed like genuinely nice human being.

Only three days after our first “official” date (we went to the movies and to get ice cream), Katherine and I had ***. I was a ******, and she wasn’t. She made it clear to me beforehand that she had had *** with two other boys before me and then asked me if I had ever had ***. I lied and said, “yeah, of course, last summer at camp”, which was a lie because I didn’t go to camp the summer before and my contact with the opposite *** ended at staring awkwardly at them from across a classroom (until I met Katherine, course). So, we had ***, right there, on my bed in my bedroom on the second floor of my house. My mom and dad were home and watching TV just downstairs, but I didn’t care. I was getting to do the one thing that every boy dreams about from the moment the hormones start flooding his body and brain and makes him think of *** more times a day than food, sleep and funny things combined. When it was over, I felt like I never had before. I felt like Neil Armstrong when he first stepped foot on the moon, like Steven Spielberg after Jaws became the first Blockbuster ever, like Hank Aaron after breaking Babe Ruth’s long-standing homerun record. In short, I was on top of the world and after Katherine went home I made a point to texting all of my friends about the encounter. I had to, it was a modern reflex, I suppose.
Things went great from then on. Katherine and I went on more movie dates, laughed, texted, hung out at each others’ houses, met each others’ parents and friends and had more ***. It was like a dream, come to think of it. Things seemed too… Cohesive. They seemed too perfect to actually be happening to me. One day, after watching a movie on TV, we decided to go for a little walk. We left my house and hooked around the block toward the elementary school when Katherine said, “Do you ever cut?”
I stopped.
“What?” I narrowed my brow and removed my hand from hers.
“It was just a question.”
“Why? Do you?”
“No,” she said quietly, her eyes trailing toward my shoes. “I was just thinking.”
“Thinking what?”
“What would you say if I suggested that we cut. Together. During ***.”
“Whoa… Uh…” I had no idea where this was coming from. I never even knew Katherine ever even thought about such things. I know I never had before. I had heard of kids cutting themselves but always thought it was a juvenile and mindless thing to do. I didn’t get it.
“Forget it,” she said, and started walking again toward the school.
“No,” I yelped. “Stop.”
She stopped and looked back at me.
“Why are you asking me this?”
“I don’t know,” her eyes were innocent. “I read an article about Angelina Jolie and she said it was something that made her feel closer to her fiancé.”
“Oh.” I looked down, then back up at her and started walking.
“I don’t know about that,” I said after a block or two of trying to piece together my thoughts. “I don’t think I would like that.”
“OK,” she replied without a second’s hesitation. And that was that.

After that I seriously began to contemplate our relationship. Everything Katherine would do or say I would consider three times over, trying to analyze the deeper meaning behind her words and actions. She seemed like an enigma to me now. I felt like I had no idea who she really was, what she was really thinking. And that kind of scared me. Weeks later, we were laying on her bed and watching YouTube videos on her laptop. She was laughing at some guy falling off a park bench and I just smiled silently, my eyes drifting toward her fingers as she typed something into the search bar. And then I noticed them. Katherine was wearing short sleeves, leaving her forearms exposed, and I noticed something. There were three bruises on her left forearm, a deep blue one, an almost purple one and a fading yellowish one. I looked up at her face and then back down to her forearm.
“What happened to you,” I asked.
“What?”
“Your arm,” I said, grabbing it and turning it over so the bruises were looking at the ceiling.
“Oh, those.”
“Yeah. What are they from?”
Katherine sighed and touched her face. “Nothing, I just… Slammed my arm.”
“Slammed your arm? How? On what?”
She pursed her lips and sighed again. “At the track meet. I fell and hit the dirt hard. There were rocks and…”
“Really,” I said, shaking my head.
“Yeah, really.”
“Well, I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to believe me, Peter.”
“What really happened, Katherine?”
“Peter, just shut up. I’m telling you the truth,” her eyes started to harden. Her face got a little red, as it usually did when
she was defending a point.
“No, you’re not, Katherine.”
“Fine, Peter, I’ll tell you the truth.”
A second passed. I was staring blankly into her eyes, waiting for her mouth to open again. She shook her head.
“The track meet…”
“Yeah? What about it?”
“I didn’t make it into the top ten. I tripped a couple of times.”
“I thought you were going to tell me the truth,” I breathed out, lifting myself off the bed.
“I am telling you the truth! Just listen to me,” she reached out, grabbed my arm this time and pulled me back onto the bed.
“I didn’t make it into the top ten. On the car ride home… My dad was… Really mad.”
“He was mad at you for doing your best?”
I couldn’t believe it. I had never seen Mr. Green mad, or even upset, in my life. Granted, I knew him only for a few months, but this revelation was still shocking to me.
“He’s a very competitive man, Peter.”
“Yeah, but… You’re his daughter.”
“I am. I am his… Daughter.”
And the way she said that kind of… Really did irk me. She said with an odd combination of disdain and love. I’d never seen her speak this way before. After a few moments, she told me that she thought it was time for me to leave. I didn’t fight her, I knew this was probably the time for me to just go and let her be alone. I mean, I needed alone time after that conversation. I was an emotional wreck, if there ever was one, and I wasn’t even directly affected by this man. Her father became a mystery, one that I felt obligated to bring to light but couldn’t really bring myself to actually pursue. My hands were tied, her family wasn’t mine, her life wasn’t mine. After all, I had only known her for about five or six months when she told me what she did that day. Who was I to go pushing buttons and beating around bushes that were, frankly, none of my rightful business?


Eventually, Katherine and I broke up. It wasn’t too long after that incident that we decided to go our separate ways. Now, it’s been about three and a half years since our relationship took it’s last proverbial breaths and I still can’t get her out of my head. I regret that I didn’t push, and I regret that I didn’t try harder to get to the bottom of the matter. We’re no longer friends, so I feel like the time to do that has come and gone, but still. Something inside of me aches every time I hear her name or see a status posted by her on Facebook. I can’t help feeling like I could have… Should have done more.

The festival was bustling
With sights and scents
When I caught yours
It just seemed to all make sense
You walked over and said hi
I just smiled as awkward as I could
But just before you could wave goodbye
I picked up the rifle and asked you if I should

You nodded and told me to try
So I gave the man a dollar
Asked myself "How could this be? And why?"
I looked to you and down the sight
I prayed for that prize, closed one eye
Saddled up and pulled the trigger with all my might
The tin can hit the floor and you clasped your hands
Together in time, I've never felt so up in my life
I asked you what you wanted
You said your favorite team
And you got it

But you walked away
You said "I'll see you later"
When I expected you to stay
I guess I was just selfish
I guess it was just a stupid wish

"A rat is a rat."
He said
"Attack, attack."
His double vision
Scares me sometimes
The way he fuses word
And ties ideas lines apart
He thinks along a separate plane
Always conscious of the next step
"A live rat is worth less than a dead one."
He looks down
"Because a dead rat is already dead."
I shake my head and
I agree, wholeheartedly
But he stares at me
Unsure if I comprehend his meaning
"Your eyes tell me you don't feel the same way,"
And his eyes dart to his shoes
I open my mouth to speak
"You don't have to explain yourself,"
He blurts
"You're the kind to pay the lowest price.
Even though you have the money."
I smile and languish the comment
I was raised in Hell
And the Devil doesn't pay well
"You're the type of man who'd never think of paying more when he can get what he wants for less.
Especially when it means he gets to **** a rat himself."
He knows me
He scares me
He lets me speak
"You know me too well."

I awoke to screaming

Only it wasn't my own
This time, it appeared
Someone had invaded my home
I got up quickly

I reached for my bat
But knew that if anything would help
It probably wouldn't have been that
But still, quietly I crept down the stairwell

In the kitchen stood a man
Or what appeared to be
He gazed at me and raised his hand
One finger to his lips, "Shhh"

So I raised my eyebrows and opened my mouth
To speak but he shushed me louder
This time and lowered himself into a crouch
And that's when I saw what he had done

Below his massive, crouched down frame
Was a shattered bottle of milk
He stared at it solemnly, knowing he was to blame
Then he looked back up at me

"Please don't tell my mother."
A single tear rolled down his big face
"She loves me like no other."
The tears were streaming now

I didn't know what to say
Here was a hulking man, in my kitchen
I suddenly felt I could no longer stay
If I go back up stairs will he leave? Or **** me in my sleep?

I backed up a little and said
"If you just go now,
I'll just be getting back to bed."
He smiled, his tears glinting off moonlight

"Thank you! But please! Turn around."
And for some reason I did
When I turned back, he was nowhere to be found
The milk was cleaned too, glass and all

I scratched my head in disbelief
I was still groggy from sleep
Anyone ever heard of a break, weep and clean?
I'd think not
I'd like to think not

The Hills went driving
All over the highway
Didn't care much for timing
Up and down cracked roads
The lights overhead shined bright
She wanted to know (confusion)
He already did (premonition)
And so they kept on going
The tires, they kept rolling
The bright lights kept glowing

He loved her so much
Never would hurt her
Was fueled by her touch
But then they touched her
Swept away and they never saw it coming

She noticed first that they were levitating
A consciousness forever confiscating
They both felt the presence of the stars
Locked away in their messy little car
Before they knew it, they were in it
And before they could do it, they already did it
Changed forever and all I got was this stupid illness
Heading to the doctor to find out what the **** this sickness is
And it's all always the same old story
So I'll just end here for fear of being boring
But it's true
The Hills are anew

Like a ******* nagging
Ache
Embedded deep in
My neck

Just like the one
I wake up to
Every night
And Morning

I just can't
Sleep
Without that feeling
Greeting me
Every
Single
*******
Morning

They call it
Generalized Anxiety Disorder
In other words
My nerves are worked up
All the time
For no reason
Just
In general
Always
Neverending
Undying

I don't believe in meds
I feel like they'd only
**** me up
Worse than I feel
Most of the time
So I trudge through
These muddied
Hallowed waters
And thick jungles
Of fire
Accompanied by intermittent bursts
Of skin-burning frozenness

Nothing is good
Nothing is right
If only my brain decided
To be this unstoppable
In all the other areas of my life
Maybe things would be a little
Better
But they're not
And I work every day to make it so
My life might be a little easier
The next morning
The next night
The next go around

But I don't know
I never know
This **** takes hold of me
And throws me down that pit
Leaves me there with no food
No water
No love
It sits there
Smile, taps its foot
And waits for me
To die

I don't know
Things just don't go
The things seem so
So
I don't know
I just don't know

Take me by the hand
Yeah
Please just lead the way
I'm not one for
Confrontation
Elation
However
Is what I seek
Always
Anyways
All ways

Person Number One
Looks at
Person Number Two

Person Number Two smiles and
Moves a little bit
Closer

Person Number One returns the
Smile
And inches
Even
Closer

Person Number Two closes their eyes and
Puckers their lips
Leans in
And

Person Number One closes their eyes
Just the same
And, wouldn't you know it
Puckers and leans

Person Number Two's lips touch
Person Number One's
And they share
That first
Kiss

Smiles all 'round
Both of their faces alight
Thoughts of happy futures and
Secure days
Ahead

Fast forward
A year or so

Person Number One slams their car door shut
Gets out
Walks through a
Large parking lot
No one around
Except Person Number Two

Person Number Two rushes
Politely
Toward Person Number One
Her heels make little
clickclickclicks
As she moves closer and
Closer in

They are five feet apart now
Person Number One smiles
Person Number Two's heels clickclickclick
And as sure as they do
Person Number One and Person Number Two
Stride, slide and click
Right
Past eachother
Without even a
Second
Glance

I like all different kinds of music. As cliche as it sounds, it's true. I could never understand how people say that their favorite genre of music is just "rock" or plain "rap". Single syllables, especially when applied to musical preference, tend to make my muscles tighten up. It's just too constrictive for me. I like words/genres like "Alternative Jazz" or "Riot Grrrl". "******* Electro" and "Psychedelic/Soul". The words themselves just sound more appealing. Seriously, when will you ever hear the words "psychedelic" and "soul" in the same breath? Let alone the same connected phrase with a slash between them?

By far though, my favorite genre of music has to be "Dream Pop". I love the music. With all it's soothing, relaxing, hazy beats and lovely, distorted vocals but that isn't the real reason I call it my favorite. The reason I do is the words "Dream" and "Pop". The two words together bring about such vibrant imagery for me. Dreams, to me, mean a lot. I'll have a really exciting one and won't be able to shake the atmosphere of them for the entire day afterward. After a particularly scary one, I usually won't be able to get rid of that sense of doom and danger that always comes along with a horrifying nightmare. It's a bless and a curse but there's nothing like it. Especially for me.

And then there's the word "pop". Also a very image-inspiring word. You can pop a pimple. You can pop a bubble. You can eat an ice pop(sicle). You can say hello to your Pops. Pop, pop, pop. It's a very entertaining word. Short but sweet.

Put the two words together and you have one highly interesting phrase. "Dream Pop". It's so soothing and lovely. I really can't imagine a better combination of words.

Your moldable heart
So many times over
Lit up and torn apart
Like a mined diamond
Dug up and brushed off
So quit your whinin'
You're just lucky
Someone like me came along

I'm way ahead of you
Mentally, emotionally and physically
You're a pretty sad excuse
For a person in such a situation
And there's nothing you can do
But listen and soak up information
Keep playing the sponge
And someday you might get the correct formation

I hold the strings
Don't you see or are you that blind?
There are so many things
To be done, to be had
But you just hold on and take to the clings
And I can't say I'm appreciative
Of the fact that you can't seem
To be anything but argumentative

I'm a ******' gift
Something shiny in the fog
That comes to give you a lift
You're nothing but the bump on that log
Who goes and makes a shift
When she hears a little something questionable
Through your heart I will sift
And by the end your arteries will be bendable

Your heart of clay
Lays lazy and easily excitable
When I docked in your bay
It looked like saving you was viable
But I refuse to stay
I regret to inform of the incoming storm
But I must decline your invitation to play

Subatomic particles
They jitter and bug on
Like the people
Late for work
That I see rushing about
Every day on the street
Just trying
To make something happen

A change
Is a positive thing
Well, you'd hope so
When something
Or someone
Or somewhere
Alters their way
When they or it
Evolves
You always hope for the best
But sometime
People, places, things
Nouns
Degenerate

And it's a shame

But it doesn't have to be that way

So
Here's to evolving
Here's to change
Here's to regenerating
Into something
Better
Bigger
Staggering
On our next
Run 'round

As day comes
And day goes
Nights say hello
Nights bid goodbye
The more I realize
You will never truly be mine

It just can't be
Logic simply won't have it
That I, merely me
Nothing to really write home about
Mentally or physically
Can ever call you
You, you
Everything, always
Every bit of you
Mine

See
Parts of you
Well, chunks, really
Are still his
And then there are all those
Other pieces
Wheeling
Through space
That are unattainable
By anything
With a beating
Heart

This may just be
My resignation
I don't know
And I'm starting
Not to care
And I'm okay with that
Truly fine, actually
I'm content
So
I think this just might be
It

so there's this girl that i met
about a month ago
yeah, maybe a little over a month ago
might be two months, for all i know
but i digress

my point is that this girl
she likes me
she likes me a lot
and i like her
i like her a little more than a lot
maybe a little too much more

but there's this problem
it's been around since the first words we spoke
and it's been clouding my brain
for as long as i know her
and i just can't seem to let it go
and i'm usually good at that sort of thing
but i guess everyone gets a little
broken
sometimes

see, this girl
i work with her
we talk for hours
and hours
while we're serving customers
and trying to hide the fact
that we might talk a little too much
from the other employees
and the management
because that's bad for business, you see
customers can't take notice
or even have the slightest cause
even for a moment
to wonder
or think
that anything may
or may not
be going on behind the scenes
between the people
that serve them behind the counters
at the movie theatre
it's just unprofessional
people have gotten fired for this
lots of them, so i hear

we have a problem with that though
see, when we're around eachother
it's hard to act normal
per say
it's hard to seem unassuming
when the person you want
is right there
only inches away from you
it's hard to fake something
that's just so real
so we don't do that good of a job
to say the least
of keeping what we are
what we have going
on the down low
so we constantly get things like
"you two better be dating"
and
"you two act so much like a couple"
and, the classic
"aww, you guys are so cute together"
i shrug it off for the most part
or i just smile
just a bit (because i can't help it)
and say something like
"no, we're just friends"
or
"no, it's not like that"

but it is
it is like that
i want it to be like that
i wish and i hope that it could be like that

but going back to what i was saying
that little problem that's been shadowing me
and prodding at my thoughts and my dreams
is that
she already has a boy

I'm sitting in a bar. A place where they all collect. They come together with smiling eyes and open hearts and sit, drink and just shoot the ****. They are all noteworthy people, not a boring or reserved soul among the bunch. And they share stories of their highs, lows and purgatories.

One of them, his name's Jimmy, tells the story he always tells when he's teetering between coherency and slop-talk. He tells of how he died. He hopped in his car one day, and boy did he love his cars. And that particular car, the one his heart stopped beating in, was his favorite. He sped down the road, his hair blowing in the wind and his hand beating the side of the door as he sang "Strangers in the Night" as it blasted through his radio speakers. He wasn't drunk, he never really was fond of drinking when he was still breathing (he says being dead is depressing and alcohol is the only thing that "assures" him). His car swerved sharply, it was raining, and he just couldn't control the hunk of metal. His head hit the windshield before he even knew what happened.

Jimmy looked down at his Jack and Coke and smiled. His eyes, now drowning in salt water, glistened off the cheap fluorescent lights. He told me he never got to tell his mother he loved her. Never got to tell his girlfriend that he thought they were meant to be. Never got to show the world that the man hidden behind so many layers of insecurity and recklessness was a man that was going to span time, generations. And I look back at him, my mouth curling a little and told him that he might not have gotten to talk to his mother or his girlfriend... But he **** well made his mark. After all, he's in a bar filled with dozens of people with stories not unlike his own. And he's talking to me. Me, with my chest inflating and deflating as it filled and emptied itself of sugary oxygen. Me, with my eyes alive and blinking and shining with life. Me, who is alive.

At least, I hope to God I am.

My father, my father
Now he's going to see
I've proven myself worth a bother
And there's no stopping what I can be
Future king of the islands of iron
And son to the one who they currently worship
Sprung in the hard isles, I was
But raised in the frozen north
I can only imagine the plans father will put forth

Now that I've sailed
Though with an unruly crew
The iron price shall prevail
Because my father says it's true
And he is His Holiness
And the undisputed head of my native land
I can do nothing to quell my hopefulness
On these ****** rocks, on this crimson shore I stand
Now and again though I've been told
That I am Theon of the North
And am a part, no longer, of the isles where I was birthed
I will show my father just who his son has become
****** it in the face of islanders who don't believe in their rightful heir
I've made mistakes, misstepped the side who won
But I am a noble, one born into which I will flair

I'm off home now, though it is my snowfallen one
Where I learned what is right
Where there is no such thing as an "iron price"
One which is embedded in my heart so tight
But I mustn't look back now
At all I have gained from these people and lands
For it's time to wake this sleeping cow
I know it is right when I step foot on the sand
March my men straight back "home"
Sneak up, like proper thieves, and sack my once-called castle
Who would've thought it'd be such a gods-be-****** hassle