We, the single women of this town,
dress beautifully for ourselves, first.

Because it is a celebration to do so.

If you are a gentleman about it,
we appreciate your praise.

If what you feel, if what you have to say,
is steeped in the ignorance of the ages,
in the presumption that we are here
as your playthings, as your entertainment,
then please, pretty please, just keep it to yourself.

*And stay way the hell away from us.

So much in me wants to get out,
So much in me wants to hide
I think I am worst than Jekyll and Hyde.

My blood rushes in,
The current is pulling,
Tides are high.
I cannot understand myself.
How can I stand myself?

I am being eaten by my own sorrow,
trying to be my own hero.

I woke up
In a dark place
With four goats around me
Dancing.

The dance was demonic
Satanic
Hallucinogenic
Static.

They moved
Yet stayed in place
They sang demonic tunes
Yet did not open their mouth.

I paniced
Screamed
Shivered
and finally ran.

I kicked one
and it Unfolded
Exploded
Into butterflies.

The other goats burst and shaped
Defaced
Recombobulated
A man.

The man had a mask
of Clay
My fist felt the clay
The clay felt my fist.

The mask
Shattered
Corroded
Disintegrated.

I saw fear
I saw dismay
I saw dread
I saw me.

He spoke
"Pathetic"
"Disgusting"
"I'm you? How cliche?".

I shook
I saw crows
I burst to butterflies
The crows ate me.

I was on the floor
I overdosed
I ****** up
I should do this again.

Though the first carried more miles, the second day of the hike was totally and unapologetically uphill. 
When you ascend, hiking becomes the zen of endurance.



First, you are stripped of all the pleasures of hiking. Your excitement is boiled into lactic acid. Your love for the trail is baked, hardened and dehydrated into thoughts of laying down in the sun until the heat shrivels you into an unconscious raisin.



Try as you may to put on your “isn’t hiking just a slice of heaven?” face, strangers passing you on the downhill stride can only see your “PLEASE GOD, HELP ME OR ******* **** ME” face.

As much as hiking really is a small slice of heaven, there is no denying the living-death of taking 10 straight miles to the knees under the chaffing hell of a 50 pound sack in the relentless sun. 


But when you’re back in an office, sitting on your cushy little ergonomic chair, you long for the sweat and the torture that forces your mind to the ankle deathtraps of mountain terrain. To the deep valley behind and below you, and the crystal basin at the foot of the granite Giants.



The worst thing you can do is ignore the pain—that makes it relentless. Instead you focus on the pain until you become it. The only thing left is the moment between each step, when you remember why you are here and what it is worth. Every time your foot touches dirt, it leaves twice the footprint. One on the mountain and another in your memory where you will safeguard the misery of your ascent and hold on for dear life. One day, when your knees are too weak and your body can no longer table your pack, all the pleasures and joys of the trail that you once thought dissipated in the steam of uphill toil will come rushing back with the magnified strength of every year between you and the present you once knew and respected enough to actually live.

And if you didn’t, if you let it only be pain to get through and not to focus or dwell on, then that is what it is and will always be. A dull memory of pain, dark and somber and incomplete.

Weight lifted,
Darkness fading into light.
Felt in my fingertips,
And my mind.
Brightened eyes,
Looking for a smile.
The scars are fading into
Thin lines,
Barely noticed by a passer by.
No more tear-streaked cheeks,
Salt droplets replaced with rosy tints.
Sleeves rolled up,
Nothing to be ashamed of.

I never knew
That I could ever feel
So renewed.
But what a wonderful thing,
Is the serenity
That is coursing through my veins.
Those little roads
Each leading a path of righteousness,
Heading towards an accepting overload;
One that grows wildflowers
On my brightened mind.
No more tears as spring showers,
Or a darkness of which the light, I cannot find.
There is a new view,
That the light has led me to-
And I cannot
Be more thankful!

If the world keeps screaming I’ll break the night,

I’ll turn it around, I’ll bend the notion.

If the height gets steeper, don’t make a sound.

"Sacrifice yourself" is the name of religion.

Spinning the gears and faking frustration,

while the system fakes a male ******.

Here is your chance to go sour and

I hope you have the guts to walk into this trap;

If nothing is real, or we’re made out of sin,

what is the image of God?

I am not willing to be forgiven,

I am not the victim of your forgiveness,

I am not forgiven, I am not a sinner,

and I’m not a martyr for your God.

I’m just Austin Heath,

dying, and leaving nothing behind,

in the name of no one or no idea,

and not even poignantly.

Just mediocre.