In this place I've retreated to,
Away from the noise and light that
Illuminates all of my wrong, all
My guilty feelings are written
Down my back as
Everyone I know looks down, in
On me -
I go into the cave,
I shiver against rough cold walls and
Listen
To my own breath echo.
To be alone here is new to me, like
A fresh house cat beneath the bed -
I don't want to trust.
I don't want to listen.
They're looking for me, I see their
Flashlights and glow sticks and
Emergency packs,
They all want to help me, that's all.
I am
Surrounded by piles
Of scrapped letters and explanations,
Crumpled allegories,
Unfinished symposiums, my
Sweat is all about me and my
Stick of graphite leaves more on my hands than
On any sentence of elaboration as to
How I feel,
What I want.
I've nearly
Used all resources here, I've
Crushed the sharp point of my utensil, I have
Very little ability to amount these thoughts
Into dialogues of truth... I don't mean to lie,
I'm just
Out of time like a mouse in a corner
Feigning death, stalling for
Some better manipulation I can
Replace with my relationships so that
My ambiguity will remain charming and unquestioned.
My candle runs dripped over and small,
But I'll learn to write without light
If I have to, learn to
See without sight if I have to,
Learn to
Demonstrate my highest capacity to
Stubborn my way out of this hole -
When I do,
I wont stop running
Until the water hits me,
Cleans my hands and
Drifts me out
Into the neutral, knowing sea.

Boredom strikes once again,
I have the right number to call.
Feeling lonely and empty,
I have the right number to call.
Need that confidence boost,
to talk to now girl of my dreams,
I have the right number to call.

The relief is blown off my shoulders,
within 3 or 4 drags of this lost wand.
Then she takes care of me making sure, that there is no discomfort.
No, not anymore.

Such a beautiful plant is open to criticism,
however for me it is a freedom, a release.
An escape from a world I don't want
to particularly be in.

A release that helps **** this anxiety which haunts me.
A release that helps me when I get ****** of random rapes/murders both international and local.
This plant is an escape, your either with
it. Or against it.
I personally  understand and respect for both sides

The chase ends
when you stop running
from yourself.

***** tweeting while they view others from outside the goldfish bowl of two Facebook. Their vision obscured by the very fabric of their fake existence inside a lemmings computer application. Not yet locked into the system as they simulate a life not truly their own as they outwardly pretend to be popular yearning for universal acceptance from a computer screen. In stark contrast to those locked into the system yearning to escape from the drudgery of another night on the M1!

Running, painting, smoking, ***, drinking, writing, reading, socializing... the fufillment these outlets give me are temporary. These dark thoughts within me are forever.

My car is safe. It’s small and warm, and no one can hurt me if I’m just sitting in here, parked.
It's a mechanical womb I take refuge in when the world is just too much.
I turn on the heat slightly with a nudge of my cold fingers and let the warm air hold me; comfort me.
I am cradled in the driver's seat and soft voices of static offer their company.
I nestle myself in the warm velvety darkness  of this womb and place my hands over my chest.
I feel my own heart beating.
The hum of the engine resonates though my spine, into my chest and whispers a lullaby... soon after I feel myself drift.

While I try to figure
Which is the trigger
And which the consequence,
A battle breaks out
Externalities cave in.
Simultaneity takes on a horrid meaning.
Anticipation becomes the catalyst
Of a demon that I created
But know not *******.

I forget where my comfort zone lies
In the sphere of my inability
To face, to do things all these years,
Or the realm I wanted to leap to.
There's no single-leap shortcut though,
I've been crawling all the while
With my head buried in the sand.

Billy awoke one day to find he was still human.
This shouldn't come as a shock to most of us, but he'd bedded down
the night before
like a kid for Christmas morning.
He'd paid good, bad, and mostly clean money
for a bad of magic
and steadily spooned it into himself.
He'd reeled and wailed, giggled and shook
limbs and fingers, tongue and teeth
formed cryptic, crazy angles
as he unraveled and wove himself
into something new.
But he awoke once more, staring at the same craters in his ceiling.
No stronger, no uglier, no freer than he had been.