Look! I can spell FATHER:

FAILURE
ABUSIVE
****
HARDHEADED
EDGEY
ROUND

Look! I can spell my name:

FRAID
REMORSEFUL
ATYPICAL
NEUROTIC
CAREFUL
IRREGULAR
SMALL

Look! I can spell SISTER:

SASSY
IRRATIONAL
SICK
TOXIC
EGOMANIAC
REALLY ******

Look! I can spell MOTHER:

MANIPULATIVE
OPPRESSING
TOXIC
HATEFUL
EGOTISTICAL
RESENT

Filmmaking should be an art form, not merely a business.

The creative process should be personal, not impersonal.

Filmmaking should be sentimental, not political.

Performances should be natural, not robotic. They should be authentic, not artificial.

Writing should be truthful, not bogus.

Cinematography should be ambitious, not pretentious.

Premieres should be on a big screen, not a flat screen.

The audience should open up their preferences, not solidify them. They should respect traditions, not belittle them.

Profit should be a reward for hard work, not a motive for it.

Filmmaking should be intoxicating, not grueling.

Credit should be a right, not a luxury.

Ownership should be divided, not bombarded.

Final cuts should be final, not temporary.

The industry should be welcoming, not selective. It should be open, not gated.

Investors should require trust, not demand control.

We should treasure movies, not forget them over time.

Artists should be publicized, not exploited. They should be grateful, not prissy.

Celluloid should be valued, not endangered.

Equipment should last, not outdate within a year.

In a country full of opportunities, why is it so difficult to achieve what you want? Better yet, if you work hard enough, why could you still fail?

She’s gonna sing?
I’ll dance.
**** — what a lovely little voice,
Caressing my spirit and shattering my ego.
Her ambiance brings forth the notion,
That one person can be deemed flawless.

Perfectly imperfect,
What a melodic little spirit.
She sings, I dance.
I listen to her words tenderizing my ear drums.
A fool blabbing love that remains unspoken,
When she rips apart all that is entwines me.

I’m a mere note in her tune,
Her concerto of loneliness and dread.
She rehearses too much,
Calculating each vibrato to the tee,
Anticipating a sore throat,
When I’m the only one in the crowd,
And I don’t mind.
I have lozenges.

All I want is to hear her sing,
And for her to watch me dance,
And cheer me on with her lovely voice,
As I sit in my skivvies, front row, center stage,
Like a buffoon with a lack of rhythm in me.

She better keep on singing.
The key may change,
But notes stay the same,
And I’ll be there to back her vocals,
With my frugal, five-dollar guitar.

I’ll always dance to her tune,
I hope she’ll always sing for me.
When she sings,
I ******* dance,
And I pray that she’ll give me an encore.

Sooner or later,
I need to learn how to dance,
A voice like hers can’t go to waste.
A genius composer,
I can never oppose her,
The sound of her music livens me.

She sings,
I dance,
She belts,
I prance,
She laments,
I advance,
To savor,
Our incestuous romance.

Into my life, she came back for a reason,
A reason, give me a reason why, anything,
A good ******* reason why she came right back,
As we fell right back, into old routines, our old adrenaline shot of love, minus the pain,
Like good *** never felt so good without her.

What the ****, man,
She came back and now she’s leaving again,
Her reluctance, against her will, she will depart, soon enough, as we lose each other all over again,
Just as we fell back in love,
She came back and now she’s already gone.

Some other ***’s mum, a lesser of a man,
Lacks her heart when I am overstocked with it,
Drowning in her love and not a care in the world,
Besides that thought lingering behind my neck,
Saying she came back but we know she’s already gone again.

Do we, though? Do we really know?
Do we really know if she’s gone gone?
Or is she only gonna be gone until the day she comes back?
Will she come back again? Will she be ready for me?
Will I be ready to take her hand and never let it go the way i have to once more?

I thought I was freed from this torment of love,
But I never was freed, and then she came back,
And it’s like… really ******* perfect,
Yet somehow really ****** knowing how perfect it is,
And it’s perfect timing for her to come back,
Just as she’s about to leave again.

**** it.

Look! I can spell BROTHER:

*******
ROYAL ******
OH, you are also-
TOXIC
HELL’S RULER
EXTREMELY-
*******

I fear that I’ll lose you,
Even though I want you gone.

I want you to stay,
Yet I often contemplate running away.

Does that make me... inhumane?

Have you driven me insane?
Or is that my head talking?
You’re the one who got me walking,
Now, here I am doing all of this balking.

We’re facing a scare, scarier than painless death.
We’re facing your suffering, promoting your very last breath.

I want you to leave me be,
But not to die prematurely.
Please don’t leave me,
I’m too young to bury,
The one thing that created me.

Dreaming of what was,
Instead of what will be.
A night with my ol' Scottish friend,
Bluer than green as my heart mimics my liver,
Screaming to be cleansed of the poisons I give 'em,
To feel something other than remorse.
Pain is weakness leaving my tear ducts,
Mumbling some sort of ironic phrase,
Playing it Bogart as I sit in my own stink,
Separate from this mediocre world,
If my own world were isolated from thought,
Or If thought were a composition of Chopin.
Sweating the aged rye as it coats my ability to *******,
I'll light another cigarette for kicks,
Since death by smoke seems more charming,
Than dying of a broken heart.
I'll kiss the lemon twist,
Relevant to the aches I've felt.
Submerging the sourness in a pool of cheap,
Since I can't afford the good stuff.

Focus in,
Focus up,
Focus on…
What?

Can’t sit still,
Can’t pay any mind,
Nothing stimulates,
This third eye blind.

Can’t lay down to sleep,
Can’t bury my face in food,
Pick it up and put it down,
My inattentiveness seems crude.

So much to do,
So little I maintain,
The energy to focus up,
Too much adulthood hurts my brain.