With statistics,
we can predict most anything.
The chance of rolling a six
or picking up a full house.

What are the chances of
driving home sad because your
sports team lost.

Whats the probability of me
losing faith in my writing.

How good are my odds that soon I will
get stuck and struggle resulting
in leaving it to rust because I gave up.
There’s a pile of things for that situation,
staring from across the room.

Why did you give up the guitar they say
Why aren't you athletic they say
Unmotivated and unhappy
I hate myself
I hate my thoughts
I hate writing about you.

In a country that prases itself for its freedoms
why is it so hard to be optimistic.
Under the fog of darkness
and haze of bright days,
true definition of California weather
single cloud in the sky
surrounded by that almighty blue
that we have learned to love.
We rejoice when it hides behind the storm
and praise its return for the day.

What are the chances that on a bright day,
cloudy afternoon, and rainy night
that I'll still feel truly happy at the end.
How many nights out of 10 nights
Will I come home and before I get out
of my car in silence, staring down the road
whispering to myself
“I will be happy, things will get better”
Sore ankles and fatigued bones
from long days of walking through misery.
Sleep through the night

Look closely, do you see it?
Down below, where man has not been
A deity with roots, deeply burrowed in the earth
There lies a mighty tree
Taking warmth from the core and
in return, provides life on the surface

Thousands of birds live within his branches
Songs sung of unexplainable beauty
His base, hollowed out for
furry creatures in the colder months
Oh, how he loves the tiny animals
They make him laugh,
dropping the sweetest of fruit

Perfection it would seem, he grew curious
What goes on beyond his personal Eden?
Several branches wrap around each other
Winding and unwinding, to reveal an old man
Terra-god, in flesh and blood
Ripping out a strong root to help hold himself up,
The long journey begins

Three days he walked through the forest
But what is three days to a man
who has lived hundred of thousands of years.
Entire civilizations rise and fall,
lifetimes must feel like matters of seconds
He continues to wander along.

Suddenly he sees something not seen before,
No cover from his branches, an open night sky
He had never felt such wonder
How many stars were as old as he?
Taking it all in, he continued to walk.

Morning came as did another discovery.
A jungle, grey, concrete, filled with soulless monsters
Black thick air, foulest of all
Stacks of stolen, re-engineered earth
rising higher then any tree.
There is no life here, only man's false heaven.
Disgusted and furious at what he saw,
he cursed this domain of blastphemy,
and turned homeward

Upon walking back as time progressed he felt weaker
He began to feel time, slower, and slower
Something felt wrong, something, felt wrong
He noticed the animals wandering about, picked one up
“Find shelter little one” in a worried tone, “It will be cold soon”

As he looked up, he trembled
His home Eden, ***** and torn by man
The sweetest of fruit,
The furry animals,
All destroyed, leaving but a trunk
He fell to the ground weeping,
Withering to nothing
The age of nature has ended

Light the cigarette, inhale exhale repeat
Hurry before your mother finds out
Pulling you back inside by the ear
Slaps your hand followed with shouts
Pots and pans clank together
Furious tension and disappointed parents
A sore hand and ear march up the stairs
Slam! The door and put your headphones in
reflect about this teenage anger and the
half finished smoke burning out on the sidewalk
Listen to the music, calm down
Vibrations from cheap store brand headphones
more then likely stolen

If I could tally up all the cigarettes that I used to ease my mind from thoughts of you,
check the mail often,
causes there's a few empty packs heading your way.
Along with a hospital bill for some new lungs because mine are ****** up
A pair of thumbs that don't ache from the texts I send
trying to make you feel the same about me.
And lastly a heart that only knows how to pump blood
that doesn't remember the good and bad times
one that doesn't build up the pressure from the past
then fires a pain through my torso wrapping around my ribs
causing me agony in the late nights

Worry not old friends I am better
No more are my Friday nights spent reflecting
on the past and possible futures

It's funny you know
I put my emotions into these words
and in turn produce new ones
A forever reoccurring chemical reaction of
lines potent with the stench of the dark side of my thoughts
and vibrant memories
If I continue to write what will become of me?
In how many words will it take to feel like a normal person
and not a black sheep of society
How many lines of reactions are needed for my personalty to become something anew?
Maybe I will be able to be in a room full of strangers, and walk away with friends
Instead of isolating myself to avoid having those horrible, terrifying things
known as social interactions
What's the big deal if friends of friends dislike you?
It's simple go up and say hello
but what if she dislikes my voice
my hair
my weight
the smallest insignificant thing, then my attempt shall be wasted.
My self worth a never ending cold, empty well

Go and do man's greatest creation; language
but alas conversation is a dying art form
Those who express their emotions through words sure are strange aren't they?
Maybe it's my culture that is the cause of my anxiety.

I stay up every night to enjoy being alone
with hopes of capturing thoughts such as these
then regret the lack of hours I slept that night
only to repeat the process again

This piece has no flow no direction,
Good
Observe how my mind works
See what I think about day after day
Look at the beginning of a memory, watch it decay
and erode from over analysis
broken down down to pointless open ended conclusions
and unsatisfying endings.

They say I've been here for three days
These young folk in white coats
Telling me that this is serious, but treatable
I have lived three even four of their lifetimes

Two weeks have past, I feel more pain
I have not felt grass or the sun since I walked through the doors of this horrid place
With the tile floors, white walls
Scrubs constantly walking through the halls

Beeping machines
Vegetables, con-artists, and bad misfortunes on good people
rest in cold rooms
on terrible beds

I couldn't pronounce the name of it
A strange elixir probably made in a lab
Some young coat said it will cure me
However the side effects are grueling

The white coat was right
I have lost all time and clarity
A state of consciousness no more
Sifting through this waist deep puzzle

Now I am floating, no longer stuck in my bed
No needles and machines surrounding me
Down below I see a beach
I know of this place

This moment is surreal, below is my brother and I
We are running on the sand
It is a warm August day
I will always remember this

Familiar faces surround me
Yet the room is so slow
These are my friends
“You'll pull through” they say

A bonfire in the woods
Beer and smokes in every adolescent hand
Attempts to fit in I walk around
Then I saw her, she was so beautiful

Why have the walls changed
The window no longer faces my right
I can now see the tops of the trees
“Intensive Care Unit” written on the door

Evening stroll with the girl from the party
The dress how could I forget about the dress

There is a tray of food in front of me
**** excuse of a meal
No familiar faces today, only white coats and needles pricking and poking
Another machine “This will help sir”

The saw mill, my first job
The sounds of the mill grow louder
Metal slicing wood, screaming and yelling in agony
Ear piercing pain

A new face in a chair, my daughter
She looks weary two three tissues in hand
A hug and a forehead kiss “to help pass the time”
Deck of cards presented on my lap, I forgot my love for them

The air is tense, my daughter yelling
New white coated men take her hand
She cries and the air thins
I cannot read their lips, she is her mother

Full suitcases and an empty room
Happy tears run down my mothers face
Acceptance letter hung on the fridge
“Proud of you son” the first and last time

Who's hands are these
Hands worn by time and the sun, such difficulty to form a fist
Texture of a tree, cut me open
Count the rings to know my age

On the stage receiving my master's
The hours spent studying
Sacrificed Friday nights deep in a textbook
This is my proudest moment

Satisfying an itch sudden pain
Down at my chest lies a new wound
Perhaps they took my soul
Destined to live as an ever growing bed sore

Rows of cubicles
The days of emails and brown nosing higher-ups
Late nights drowned in beer
Slowly drifting from my family

Oxygen mask around my mouth
Bored grandchildren begging parents to go home
Go ahead. Leave
Let me enjoy my final days alone

Beer bottles shattered across the floor
My family walking out the door
My demons caused my family to leave
I never saw the girl from the party again

In my dying moments I realized a truth
We spend our lives wanting more
Only to be kept alive in a pitiful state
Having friends and family surround your semi-lifeless corpse

I no longer wish to be imprisoned in this
Old, weak, and cancerous cadaver
I have become what I feared
Forever waiting for tomorrow’s applesauce

This time falling from high distance
Finally clarity, a want for freedom no more
Reflecting regrets and mistakes of the past no more
Suddenly stopping I awake in the white walls

In my final spring of energy I rose my arm
“On my own terms” I whisper and I begin to break my shackles
Fail safe alarms from my prison, no chance of survival
White coats rushing in. Wasted effort

and alas, eternal sleep