The question is asked again and again,
Where do we come from? Who are we?
All throughout life men and women great
And foolish have attempted to explain this,
"In a moment all will be explained,"
"If you pay more money you will be cleansed,"
"Not worshipping is the realm of the insane,"
"With these soft spoken incantations you will mend,"
So where do we come from? What is all this?
From rushing water, breath of air, no need for
Recognition, it's all miles away in some deserted
Forest, to be left for later generations to forget,
Let this be an answer, why are we here? I shall
Obtain eternal life if I just hold this vile
Closer to my heart, a work of vain art,
This isn't life, this is the illusion of life,
The answer nestled in a small cave,
The birth of a newborn bird, a ripple in a pond
From a rock that fell during an earthquake,
A vague reflection of a deer in it's surface gleam,
All of this and more, the darkness of night,
Cloaking terrors real or imagined, what is this?
Maybe one day we will know? This is how fools
Are born, clinging to this or that, a drop of water
From a vile, an answer from a simple written text
That proves it's all happened thus far. This is why
Fools are born of this, opportunists, blinded by dust,
The great way of those who gather to take advantage,
This is where the greatest numbers of fools gather.
Far away, the beautiful forest, I may not know what brought
This all to life, but I do know what is worth saving
And what only fools shall save for themselves...

Vicious black rage enveloped his eyes
Electric hate cycled through him
Naturally he resorted to the action he knew best
Graphically and meticulously he planned his revenge  
Enhancing his weaknesses into strengths
Forward he went, ready for bloodshed
Undoubtedly he went for is first five on the list  
Letting his cold vexation take over

-EC

Sometimes stuff is not gonna go the way you want.
Sometimes the world with explode under your feet.
Sometimes love will be just out of your grasp.
Sometimes people will be back stabbers.
Sometimes you'll bleed to death.
Sometimes you'll just have to sit there listening to angry music by Eminem to feel okay.
Sometimes you'll never be okay.
But that's okay.

Creativity is a weapon.
Giving up is not an option.
Imagination is a strength.
Knowing your flaws is not a weakness.
Knowing you have them is a strength.
Pride is important,
But too much pride is deadly.
Love is key,
And hate is the beginning of the end.
Death is an adventure,
But life is as well.
Perseverance is admirable.
Crying is okay to do.
Taking a break,
Catching your breath,
That's okay.
But with all the things working for you,
Giving up is not an option.

Can I show you how beautiful you are? Can I take out the old photo albums and push my index finger into the faces, the places, and seas? I want to peel back the plastic and remove the square photographs from their sticky setting. I'm alluding to ideas that exist more formidably on the internet- there are no paper photographs, no sticky settings, there aren't even faces in the numbers; it's only ever been you or me.

Some of my things are crooked. The strings don't work, the wires are twisted and make the sounds all come out funny. There's a strange buzzing everywhere, it's like Mickey's gray cloud, a cloud Koopa throwing spiked shells from Park Avenue beach to Montrose street. Everything is quiet, consuming, unassuming and still recalcitrant. I'm showing nothing to nobody. Coaxing storm systems and netting foul play and ***** tricks, with my pants around my ankles or my fly unzipped.

I'm stinking of this stuff. These sudorific crevices on the insides of my thighs. I'm more or less always pacing. Rocking. Rolling. Small room I'm living room, cadavers I stuff my skinny fingers inside of- cold, wet hollow places I'm seeking skin covered gods in. I'm craving tastes and flavors. I'm looking at these pictures of me, of my face and the clothes I wore, the people that knew me. Where have I disappeared to? Every place that I went, every condition of my humanness has gone. Five minutes past my certainty, squirting hot molten magma from my ****, my lips, and my fingertips. Hysterical thoughts and homily. I want just a hello. I want just a hello.