Saturday sidewalks are filled by the youthful,
the boys with young muscles and hard heads,
the girls with soft skin under short skirts.
They wander sidewalks in search of escape.
Each of them dance with lust,
drink hard,
and inject madness
into their veins.

On Sunday mornings,
after the splendor of uninhibited release,
the young weep in regret of poor choices,
their air saturated in reality.

Sidewalks then belong to the wise
who wake from a good rest.
These men and women drink roasted coffee,
reflect on a transcendent spirituality,
read great poetry,
and meet friends to discuss
the roots of democracy.

Every year, the unchanging concrete slabs
of sidewalks appear slightly different.
They reflect our perspectives.
Sidewalks that once led to freedom,
now lead to enlightenment.
In future years,
these same sidewalks
will lead to rest.

Mom? Dad?
Is anyone home?
Mom? Dad?
Well, where did they go?
Mom? Dad?
I can't find you...
I can't see you...
Mom....? Dad?

I cannot remember,
I cannot forget,
Whatever it used to be,
Left him in torment,
Constant,
Endless,
Torment,
There was only bitter confusion,
As it carried his life away overseas,
Into a darkness that even he couldn't see,

How...

How could they just... leave me?"

Yet, they were right in front of me...

Mom! Dad!
I'm right here!
Can't you see me?!

Someone that was right in front of me,
And yet,
He didn't know the answer to even his own questions,
A father of no past,
And a mother with no future,
A present for their son,
That usually one would never refuse,
But his present's became,
Either too old or new for his presence,

Mom, Dad?
I'm scared....
Where are you taking me?
I cannot see a thing...
Mom...... Dad?

I cannot see,
Nor can I hear,
Everything around me,
Became a valley of unheard stories,
Silence touched the tip of a bitten tongue,
For it to choke on tears like words,
It became a shallow life of obscurity,
But as I continued to touch the keys,
The pencil that had the ability to write,
They became the story,

Mom... Dad.
Why,...
Why are you doing this to me?

Never once could a story such as these,
Write on such words,
But please,
Write,
Write for me,

Why did you stop?
Why did you not continue?
What piece stops halfway upon entering?
Where are these words you were supposed to add in here?
Who said you could do that?

Why....
Why....
Why....
Why...

They never understood me,
They never did,
For one that knew reality,
Forgot life emotionally,
Losing everything that was a part of them,
They became a slave to the world,
And I slowly became a part of it...

Every night,
I would lay down with,
Constant,
Endless,
Torment,
No matter how far the distance,
I will always be reminded of my struggle,
To get to where I am today....


*I'm all alone...







Aren't I?

Let’s stop
Time for a moment
Why always rush?
Reality is a torment
Listen to the hush
Of complete silence
If you listen closely
There is always a difference
In the way something sounds
The way the air feels
There is so much that
The outside world conceals

Why must we be
Always keen to go
To the next place, why don’t we
Ever take things slow?
Why don’t we
Take time off the frets
Savour the little moments
We’d otherwise forget?  

And have you
Just skimmed through these words?
No time to read aloud
You don’t want to be heard
Isn’t it just
A part of your mind?
A system forbidding you
To slow or rewind

You’ll always skip through
Let the words blur your sight
And you would continue
To read it all quickly
No matter
How detached
Are these
Words
That
I
Write.

She's terrified with the thought of suffering
*torment of regret

Never what you wanted
Always in the way
Your words so haunted
By abuse and pain
Tainted with knives
The scars still stain
Weak and rejected
Limpness of a soul
Demolished and confused
Torture so cruel
Like a light in a fire
You spread through my heart
You created a monster
One forever dark
Determination through hate
No one more to despise
These demons eyes
No comprimise
Now it shall be done
Nothing left to be said
I'll paint your life red

I’m the degenerate you love to hate,
the unclean sinner who won’t tow the line.
You ridicule my independence at dinner parties,
among similarly dressed cronies,
the institutionalized prisoners
of prestige.

Hate us all, the degenerates.
Scorn the indie musician on the sidewalk.
He colors the dull march of the khakis.
Despise the painter in welfare housing.
She strokes thick lines of anguish
upon uncomfortable canvases.
Taunt the quiet poet at the end of the bar.
He writes raw truth on napkins gone ignored.

Loathe the degenerates you secretly *****
when fashionable friends aren’t looking.
Eyes fixed upon your contemptuous smirk,
I am unable to cast judgment upon you.
Another degenerate spreads her tattooed thighs
without any hope of acceptance.
She only wishes to feel for a moment
the intoxicating sensation of
temporary love.

The degenerate’s ****** is the richest syrup
that briefly covers your vanilla routines.
Debauchery provides you a moment
to feel freedom within slums,
the pleasures of darkness,
the uninhibited passions of a life
without approval.

A young man with tattoos
walked in to the café.
He examined two chairs
at the empty table
in front of me.
He cupped his chin with one hand.
He silently compared the older chair
with the torn, dilapidated seat cushion
to the newer chair that still had a black metallic shine.
He picked up the beaten chair
and carried it to the table behind me
to join his friends.

That’s how we define ourselves,
our class, our place in the world.
Some people believe they deserve
the best seat in the house.
Others believe themselves second class,
commoners whose insecurities run rampant.
We do it to ourselves.

No matter which seat we take,
every one of us
knows love and hate.
We all fight and struggle.
We are all unique.
We are all the same.

Don't look at me when I know you can't stand me
Don't act like you care, I'm vulnerable as you can see
Don't touch my cuts they aren't for you to caress
Don't tell me to sleep you know I won't rest
Don't lead me on when I know you won't show
Don't tell me you love me, don't ever let me know
I'm too far gone to be considered in my head
Just leave me to rot in self pity, I'm as good as dead

I brought it on myself
I let myself fall into a relationship where I knew I'd have to compete
With substances and others and ******* on the street
I brought this on myself
When I told them what I thought and finally opened my mouth
Only to be despised and insulted and thrown off the shelf
I brought this on myself
I got myself into a rut and complained about it
Until I finally did something, out of character, and burnt everyone else
There lies no sympathy in hell for someone no one cares to understand
Well I've given up
I'm done
Let the devil take my hand