When I listen to a story
Be it in a theater or on a phone
I don't feel weird about how I feel
I know I'm not alone
Because at every other time
I'm not sure how to be
Because if I let it all out as-is
I'm certain I'd look crazy
But when I read a book or listen to a song
I know that all my bizzare thoughts belong
Because in the end, I'm a sucker for a story
Whether it's on pages or a silver screen
Welcome to the stage on which
Life is lived as a performance
Welcome to the office in which
Every day is a job interview, where
Work is nothing more than being looked at
Welcome to a new bank account, with
More money than anyone needs, and
More pressure than anyone deserves, to
Spend it as tabloids demand
Welcome to criticism, for clothing choices –
Too similar to someone else
Not flattering enough
Not slutty enough
Not daring enough
Welcome to scrutiny, over
Every romantic detail
Every baby’s name
Welcome to mockery
Welcome to an opportunity to
Use your voice
Take a stand
Make a change
Welcome to pressure to
Toe the line
Take no risks
Welcome to a new form of slavery, offering
Wealth and adoration
Freedom for some and shackles for others
Welcome to a ruined, wasted life lived short of its potential –
Role in the home passing by, and
A tempting, all-you-can-eat buffet of mental health issues
Welcome to a new status, to be
The centre of attention
Welcome to the celebrity contradiction
Demands for privacy
Welcome to someone just like
It's emergence so brief and shattering,
you'd have to question it's existence.
Sucked from the swamp by the sky,
it is devoid of morality; it is the terror
that does not forgive what it hasn't
given permission to.
Abrupt hum of an Indian motorcycle,
streaking across the starving freeway,
leaving ribbons of red, in the long,
uncomfortably volcanic-black night.
The body on the machine is wrapped
in cheap, crimson leather, and topped
by a navy helmet, stamped by a
visor reflecting rushed stars.
Migraine-inducing headlights hit
it's prop-store-green body, as it
drips and steps towards a vintage
orange van. Through the videotape
windshield, it can see two still figures;
two figures with aviators and bandannas.
Road signs swing by; the air zipping
in and out of the helmet. The body,
effortlessly, weaves through and
past the few vehicles lost in the dark.
Decelerating, the Indian penetrates
an exit stained: 567-TX-155.
Inside the carpet lined cave,
the figures stare at the monster,
indifferent to it's existence -- well,
not entirely one reminds the other.
It's arms dance in front of it's eyes,
blinded by the freshly clicked
high-beams; unaware that they
are, slowly, stepping closer.
Approaching a skeletal forearm,
emulating a tree, the Indian gradually
becomes silent. The body walks it
behind the rooted elbow, laying it
on a web of wooded earth; pulling
up a sleeve, removing and resting
a watch on the hot, metallic carcass.
It removes it's scattering fingers,
green and twitching, from it's
shrub framed eyes. Looking
forward, two bottles of blackness
grow near. It is a miracle only
surpassed by the instability of
life, that I look upon you, one
bellows. Consider this not
personal, but a preemptive
admonishment. Simply: I
cannot allow you to live,
for I have heard what I
cannot understand. Please
know that I admire,
thus I destroy.
The leather-clad foot-claps
eat and spit the sleeping gravel.
Pace becomes quicker; frenzied,
even. Like a comet, exact in its
imprecision, the navy helmet
falls to the ground, capturing
a night-sky goodbye; casting
the moon, briefly, into her eye.
So brief you'd have to
question its existence.
It's body, pulpy and beet red,
lodges itself between their
pale, freckled fingers. They
consume, pause, then continue
to gnash on the foreign meat.
Yellow, like an ancient bone,
the moon curves and bends
with ever chomp. It can feel
it all. The insides, pulled and
wrapped around wrists; soon
yanking; soon gritty removal.
The light begins to blend
with the surrounding dark.
Last breath, ruined by the
brief choking it's flesh caused.
So brief you'd have to
question it's existence.
Sweat rips down from her
hair, onto her eyelids. A
dead sprint is broken into,
before she throws herself
into woods, avoiding the
approaching beams of a
seconds imitate the
vehicle and go by. She
lifts her eyes to the brim
of a bush; pupils sliding
Van tires make the transition
from gravel to asphalt, as the
two figures are now, indifferently,
drenched in a red-bronze, becoming
crust around their lips. The driver
says, My father told me about him --
that. He said, if given life, it would
learn to take it. You cannot change
the nature of a monster. If we
remove it, we remove death.
We control the consent.
Her heels transform her sprint
into a statue's posture. The rocks
hurt her knees, as her hands soon
follow, crashing to the ground.
Scattering fingers reach towards
her, soon met by her petite grasp.
The same fingers grow still.
She reaches towards her side,
cradling the nickle handle of
The Last Killer
looking behind her, anger and
a plan, running down her face.
December snow and college life
It's not easy to survive
Feel the snowflakes on my skin
The cold air I'm breathing in
It's so hard to pay the rent
Nothing but my time to spend
But as long as it's with you
There's nothing else I'd rather do
When I met you I was hooked
Not only by the way you looked
You got me totally obsessed
I love you only, I confessed
My heart beats for you
When you leave me, it's true
I'll never recover
From the loss of my lover
I'd give up my life
To be by your side
I once dreamed of Paris
But I only need you, wherever that is
So don't say you're sorry
For when you love truly
There's no need to apologize
For being the best thing in my life
49th minute out of Hour 3
It was like a scene out of a movie
starring you and me.
The start of something beautiful
but the beginning of the end.
I sometimes regret saying yes,
and other times I am glad for that day.
But mainly I just stress
about what will come of us.
As my life tends to go,
there is tragedy, there is sin.
But the thing that will keep us together
is my imagination and my pen.