I return home
from another long night
putting on shows for
people I do not know
and with people
I can scarcely
relate
to

my legs ache,
my hands twitch,
little bites and
bruises liter my body
like some kind of
war paint

there is no satisfaction
in this any more

there is a deep unfulfillment
in the life I am now living

I move slowly,
each action taking more
and inflicting more,
while I contemplate the
meaning of my life
(once again)
and look about my bedroom
wondering why I have allowed
it to become so
messy

Synchronicity -
It means all of the events
flying, WHIZZING!, d-r-i-f-t-ing by us
as we ourselves float through the world
are related, connected, entangled,
and emerge from some kind of
divine symphony.

The sounds of laughter, tears dripping,
hearts BREAKING, SMASHING, SHATTERING,
the scraping knees crawling through the rubble,
hands SLAPPING TOGETHER as heads turn
towards heaven in prayer-

The warm embraces, -sighs- of comfort, lips smacking,
bodies pressing together in the hopes of being
reunified for a few moments, the glances,
the poems, the letters, the rings exchanged
and matching cemetery plots-

The triumphs, WOO-HOOS, celebrations,
toasts, clinking wine glasses, bottles, mugs
bumping fists, patting hands drumming
confidence into chests-

They are all supposed to be
one godly plan.
Like high notes, tragic sonatas
and joyous fingers plucking
heavens strings into
gracious cords and
silent pauses between tracks
are all one concert that we're conducting.

But doesn't it all feel so fragile?
One broken instrument, one
distracted player, one missing page in
your play book, a hand swished too hard,
eyes-too-penetrating or overly
aggressive dismissal of your
prized pianist
and the whole orchestra
falls into chaos.

What's it mean? What was that lyric?
What key is it in? What is the right tempo?
Do I emphasize the earthy drums that provide stability?
Do I drag you along on a magical carpet ride of echoing
falsettos, throats tugged like the handle-strings
drawing across my violin eyes on an exciting journey?

Or do I sink into the minor keys of my pain-
Songs that I don't share, playing on headphones
now I want to blast them, sob them out, sing them in whispers
at first, let them grow in me like my apathy, swell into tumors of
fear, and hurt and eat me from the inside out!

I want to shout songs of suffering. Have my piano keys
spin you into my anxiety, guitars raising the key like water rising
one floor at a time in the Titanic that is my beating heart.

I want to watch the drummers sweat as they beat out the rage
of having my most precious friends, objects and opportunities
snatched away - over and over - despite the progressive movements.

I want to draw you back into my finale with my fear. It will have to be so disturbing that each note raises hairs on your neck. When I drop my baton, leaves you with my night terrors - so foreign from the concert I'm playing that I'll need

electric guitars, wild wind instruments, theramin and a chorus of sirens and banshees to scare you back into your seat. Songs inspired by fear, pain and sadness, anxiety and misery are all you'll find at this concert. Songs that make bowing an act of submission and never respect or adoration. My forums lack fan clubs. Covers of my songs don't exist.

Please - leave your hearts at the door. Chances are that fate,
the ultimate conductor, will rip me out of this black-and-white
universe that traps me like a suit made from
straightjacket fibers, anyhow. Because life, no matter how unified they tell you it is, LIFE doesn't get remastered. There is no deluxe version, b-side, or re-recording.

No one can auto-tune my words. The dangerous, raging guitar solos of insults and fury that have wrecked
all of the men who really cared at one point.
The friends who survived the mounting anxiety of watching me
skip like a CD in the broken walkmen we had as kids. Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! I meant to! Mean-! Mea! Meant, Meant, Meant, Meant <silence>, SLAM "Meant to call you,"

Or maybe ([SARCASM] IF YOU'RE LUCKY!) you'll hear track 4. I'll sing, "I need your help!", "Wow, *****, just come over!", "This *****!", "I didn't mean it", "Don't get like this again!". Against the anxious, building, manic tones, my panick blares while "I'm not good enough", "Can't do that", "my disease makes that hard", "Do you like me?", "**** this!!!" blares like an infernal choir pressing you to madness.

See, human symphonies aren't coherent - music theory isn't a predictive corpus. Experience shows that you can't make it come together. Too often, we don't get any rehearsal time. The death dirges that have stolen away my family, one at a time, creeping up from a silent, whispering stocatto'd-doom drown out any of the romantic, epic harpsichord solos that I still only dream of.

The angry, head-banging, 'where's that mosh-pit for grown-up children with kneepads?' beats don't motivate me anymore. They break down the walls to the studios where I was writing expert concertos. The earthquake-like blasts of my self-loathing fear have already torn down too much sound-proofing and the record studio collapsed because noone had the credentials to get in. My only dance consists of turning off the lights and yanking up the covers. Being a one-hint wonder isn't happening. Then again, can you blame me for not stopping? I don't pass this after I hit it.

In the end, the musicians don't always show up. It's like, - We've all been to that concert. Ya know, where everyone feels the awkward energy of a 4th grade Christmas Carol musical? Where, the costumes weren't convincing. Of course neither were the conductor's falsehoods, lies, omissions, or the promise that you'd enjoy this show. Cover art, like my critic's ratings, just don't do me justice . "Smart, engaging, relatable" the new listener's proclamation that "I'm falling in love! I can't get enough!" are marketing gimicks that just don't last.

Synchronicity, like destiny, has revealed itself to me as a fantasy. Reality's crumpling threads don't always find their way into skilled weaver's hands.  These strings have all snapped. In the end, I'm left smashing drums with trombones, crying over the rusted saxophones that can't croon for other hearts anymore. Just wait, my closing number is a Celine-Dion covered effort to stay afloat in the monsoon that I've been summoning for over a decade. When everyone leaves my audience, the program is either left behind or taken only by the weirdos who resonate with this kind of tortuous tune

I end each night walking the aisles of my darkened auditorium-soul now. I like to follow the echo and chase "coulda!" "woulda!" shadows across walls. I find your ticket stubs and nostalgia pulls me away from the dimming lights. In the end though, I can't counter the reviews that my show has no point. The tragedy isn't teaching any lesson and the cacophonies I birth don't generate fans. Plus, requests for autographs have become suicide invitations for an artist who can't release a polished track.

Synchronicity:A word invented and popularized by psychologist Dr. Carl Jung in the 1950s.  We all no better now that this is not a word that exists. Yet, the potential leads us all to chase after seasont tickets.

Synchronicity, defined as the false hope that it all means something. Synchronicity, the hope that you'll get to be the big strand in something special. Synchronicity - the promise of a heavenly choir, or divine symphony; of course we've already fallen from grace too often to question our unfulfillment. Sync-ro-nic-it-eeeee, like an old worn-out cassette tape, rarely comes with the equipment and support needed to hear it. Synchronicity - The jagged, little red pill that I can't take. Synronicity: the seemingly fate-driven world that we all stop believing in when the silence sets in.

Synchronicity: a series of seemingly random events that promise you a long night of unsurpassed concert sound. At least it's not alcohol I'm left lacking

Synchronicity, the artists that't leaves us entangled in distractions. Like scratched soundtracks. Synchronicity: the band I quit that has since left me wishing for buttons:

Pause. Stop. Repeat. Shuffle. Fast-Forward? Rewind!.....
..... Skip.

...................Eject.

NOBODYNOBODYNOBODYNOBODYNOBODY
NOBODYNOBODYNOBODYNOBODYNOBODYNOBO­DY
GLASS SPIDER PINK SPIDER GLASS PINK GLASS
Glass Spider Pink Spider
The water's all gone. Hurt
Who hurt who hurt who hurt who hurt


If this is [--] also then what's to
stop me from the other.
I am so out of control.
Why am I living?
Everybody's got somebody.
Shining Star, everybody's
covered in scabs!
Why is this making me break.
****
What makes me want to [--]
My lack of control
My anger- lack of control of anger
Depression
Lack of movement
Failure to impress or be loved
or make an impression or feel
something other than longing


LONGING unfulfillment
I don't feel fulfilled
I am a half-eaten fruit
I will now rot.
And attract the flies
Become the soil of the earth

Is that a sign?

Believe in nothing
NOBODY

See value
worth
WORTH IN ME
Time is crawling

My arm is stung by nail bees
It feels good
I feel unfulfilled

They do this to me
Who wants a crazy bit(scribbles)ch
H(scribbles)

Worth is irrelevant
Worthless
The work is not worth the
work is not worth worth
Worthless
Loveless
Rotting


You don't miss me you dumb *******
I know where the tools are
I saw them today
My arm is twitching
I want to stab this pen in an eye
TOO DIZZY
Maybe if I
stop breathing just for tonight
I'll stop thinking
perhaps
I'm too much of a
coward
too smart though not smart
enough for anyone to want me
I want to pass out
how do I make myself
pass out without making noise

Everything in the room
is an implement


This past I dont
want to revisit
although maybe I
was better then
less bitter less
upsettable less
worthless

I Jammed the pain inside, to wait for the defects to reside. Today strays and wanders away until it's stuffed down inside the void of discomfort. Let's roll our imagination onto light able paper, light it, and watch it burn..

See because that's what addiction does. It overrides your body latching on your inner artistry for its fuel. Pretty soon you become a machine, something mindless. Fasten your seatbelt because your on auto-pilot.

Now the transactions of your body really start to inaugurate. Your internals no longer has what it takes to fight, to resist, so now come the alterations.The tips of your fingers go hand in hand with the tip of your tongue. How your saliva's lust for substance dismantles the chemical compounds. Your taste buds loving that all too familiar feeling. Your greed full blood consuming every inch of it. As the destruction slowly trickles down your throat your anxious. Then the finale comes, the moment you've been waiting patiently for  the manipulation and overhaul of your brain and your reality remodeled, your home.

In those seconds pain is never an option, never a thought. Your lost out at sea. But that's all it really is, seconds, minutes, sometimes hours, just a little more time to stick the dysphoria on the back burner. When in truth you've just deepened the scar and exposed it to infections. When it's gone your left with broken thoughts that feel unrepairable.

Addiction doesn't just come from pre-packaged materials, they come from every entity you wish that blocks the truth out. They come from unfulfillment , pain, and soak themselves until you are left with no control. You have to fight, fight for your life. Face the music

No one bears witness
to the loneliness that a man holds inside.
Therefor, No one can bring him comfort.

There exist no mountain high enough
to shield him from the tidal wave of doubt,
No fire hot enough to burn away his insecurities.
Nor a drug potent enough to hurl him far from reality.

His every dream and hope take the same
suicidal plunge towards unfulfillment,
as do his desires and cravings.
He's become all to familiar with this hollow shell
of existence that presents itself in his bathroom mirror.

Failure wraps around him
Constructing his every thought
and suffocating any sign of imagination.
His dreams vanish into oblivion
and as his vision fades to black,
the world whispers...
"You Are Nothing".

But, As his heart withers away
like a dying star...
His soul explodes with inspiration.
The windows of the night shatter,
Allowing the brightness of confidence to bleed through
and his faith be resurrected.
He gains the courage
to stand against the world
and even tho it opposes him
He continues to pursue that which he knows
can be accomplished,
Forgetting that he was ever... doubtful.

Losing myself in the messages,
trying to make up for every time i felt unwanted by letting this 23 year old i met at a party a year and a half ago bury himself inside of me, because someone finally wants me.
He craves my touch the way i crave yours.
The only difference is that i love you and the only reason he cares is because he isn't getting enough from his girlfriend.
So why not?
*Unfulfillment leads to ***.

I'm never really good with words
No, I'm not talking about my vocabulary strength,      
nor my ability to string words into a clean knot of similes and oxymorons at a perfect length
where I appease the regulations of grammar,
and please the cynical brains of strangers,
I am talking about the sound trapped beneath the fat folds of my brain,
the trains of thinking, never-blinking, that keep my outcasted thoughts sane,
I am talking about the voice of a teen filled with angst and unfulfillment
hellfire livid, mistaken as tepid, burning inside the sanctuary's core that is my heart lacking of discernment

I'm never really good with words
No, I'm not talking about my skills at spelling,
nor my knowledge of historical people invested in writing
although I could say I, myself, would become history
just because I write in my own disposition and misery,
but what good would that be?
That my pen speaks louder than my voice,
and that a stick of ink triumphs over the blistering fire raging in my ventricles
Are you not entertained?
Seeing me crumble like lava rocks beneath your toes
and soon, I will be one with the ash that aimlessly goes around
and around and around you and the others that detest my will to speak
because apparently I’m a silent know-it-all, too fragile and meek
to survive in an obstacle course that is my existence  
Enlighten me,
you people who hold the needles and threads
How dare you ask for my preference of color
if my liberty to speak is dead?

I'm never really good with words,
so maybe it would be better not to say them at all

Hamlet has spoken that amongst the earth are we but worms,
That the equality of all, in death shall be faithfully confirmed,
Ask the diet of worms, shall we be nothing but a wholesome meal,
That eventually rots and decays and inevitably reveals,
That the prior life was but a mere dream of subconscious scope,
In which man had had dreams and wishes and dearest hopes,
In which unfulfilled desires will unyieldingly linger upon,
The soul of those deadly beings that lay deafly a'sound.

For to live is but to live with neither regrets nor unfulfillment,
But with greater servitude and a single mere acknowledgement.
For to be deadly is but to rest upon the earth and live a life of view,
Seeing the world in greater lenses with greater vision unskew.  
And watch amongst the people of the lonesome land,
Yield the same misfortunes and actions that thou'st had command.
But speak not can you, for be'st the silent ghost you are,
And thou'st see upon the world must these idiotic beings scar.

But yes, speak not can you, for the watcher you be,
And observe the failures that the earthly beings see.

And through death have your name spoken and values sound,
For the great doings when living has your existence confound.
Oh, but to die without a name is but to live a non-existing life,
And for at the moment of death shall recalling strife,
That neither has accomplished nor achieved a greater whole,
And done'st nothing of greater value, but with death its toll.

But then, it be inevitable for the state of the freeing soul,
But upon such deadlying actions will thy face no one know,
For once the water of life has been engulfed us all,
Then never will upon the world can you a moment recall.

For death is but a barrier that burdens your hoping dreams,
And blockades the mind with tendencies in which it seems,
That death may bring the equality of beings to amongst us all,
For true equality must it been upon the worms we be drawl.

For in time, will the name be of existence no more,
Unless in life had you achieved something greater swore.
Oh, with aired lungs shall most beings hold no name,
But until spoken death, will some of their existence remain.

They deceive us
When they say
"Hold onto your dreams,
Never let them go."

Because they never
Tell us what to do
When you dream
An Impossible Dream.

Such a dream
Can never occur,
Not because you lack the ability,
But because it would defy reality.

Some can learn to let go
Of such dreams.
Yet the cursed who cannot
Live tortured lives of unfulfillment.

So tell me now,
You elderly, supposedly wise:
What am I to do
With my Impossible Dream?