it’s just hit me
that middle school
was the last
time I was really part
of the “main
crowd”

now I run in completely
different circles

different people,
different lives,
different activities

guess I decided I wasn’t
going to put up with the
****

but then I thought a bit more:

running in circles

who does that?

crazy people for one

and then I was quiet
with that realization

I wish I was mad

things would be simpler,
predictable.

I can handle insanity
and absolute
realism

but
not both.

food chart’s coming
plane’s shaking
zune’s nearly out of power
P.A. just told me keep seated

honest truth:
the P.A. interrupted me

I was gonna write an intro
go ***
come back
and write some more

it was probably gonna be crap
but now
at least there’s a little
drama

I believe that I control my happiness. Every day, I see people that go to school, go to work, and they act as if they don’t control what happens to them. When they are sad, it is because the universe is being unfair, and when they’re elated, they accredit it to the alignment of the moon, stars, and planets. I know that they are wrong. I know because I have lost control of myself, and thus, my happiness.
       I am in a state of disrepair. My grades are slipping, my relationships are devolving, and my mind is cloudy with doubt. I am not happy. Nothing I do seems rewarding, and even the distractions I can manage to squeeze in only delay an inevitable tumble back into the depths of the dark pit I call my life.
        How did this happen? How could I let this happen? Here I am. Standing at the bottom of a hole and knowing only one thing:  I dug myself here.
         Maybe it couldn’t be helped? Sometimes I get behind, sometimes I get buried in my work, and sometimes things are bad for no other reason than just plain bad luck. I know these are somewhat true, but in my case, I know exactly what I did to get here. I made inexcusable decisions each day: to play a video game instead of finishing my math homework, to read a play instead of reading my history book, or to laze around instead of getting done what needed to be done. I chose to put-off and half-***, knowing full well that they would only dig me further into the hole. I chose to close myself off and to become snide and moody. I made these choices; I chose to be unhappy.
          I brought this future upon myself. I regret, in advance, the hours that must be spent recovering from my missteps, yet I still go on to make the same mistakes before I’ve fixed those I’ve already created. Hedonism and lack of discipline got me here. I loathe the things I wish I hadn’t done but those opportunities are in the past, forever lost. I seek to change my future. I seek to be happy once again.
          I believe that this essay has come at a bad time in my life. I am low, lower than ever before.  I want to get out of here, and it is my belief that I can, with work and determination, clamber out of this hole and rediscover the light of happiness. I will be stronger for it. By climbing out of the pit on a ladder of hard lessons, I will emerge with the wisdom that can only be learned when one faces oblivion. This I believe: happiness is something I control and there is still a chance for me to seize it. I know this because I have done it before, and I believe that I can do it again.

there is a sad child
somewhere
over beyond those trees
where a red balloon
floated up from
his hand
and
into the blue,
fall
sky

I’m sure he pulls
at his mother’s hand,
begging her to look,
to notice,
but she will shuffle
him off, tugging
the boy along
as he points and
cries towards
the volume of rubber
growing smaller
and smaller in
the distance

there is nothing I can do,
nothing anyone can do
and I take solace in that

but I feel for the kid:

his first disappointment
in a long life filled with even
worse ones

I watch myself go through
this pain:

I am slamming down
the phone

the tears of my
anger, grief, and confusion
spill out now

the voice on the telephone
still tells me to keep waiting,
keep waiting, keep waiting
keep waiting

I am slamming my fists
against the wall

it hurts,
everything hurts,
I yell at the gods
and curse fate

I am lying alone
in the darkness,
silently wrestling
with my demons

I am confessing all my sins

I am asking her what she
thinks I should do

I am listening to her,
hanging on each word,
each thought

I am fighting back,
correcting her mistakes,
trying to make her
understand the state
I’m in

I am crying in her arms
and she whispers to me,
“ do what makes you
happy”

I am fighting with that
wise advice

the truth and the bitterness
in it

the fire as I must drink it
down

I am taking long swigs of it,
cringing as it runs past my
throat and into my stomach

I am feeling the relief
of decision

I am slamming down the telephone

I am listening to that voice
deny me

telling me “keep waiting,
keep waiting, keep waiting,
keep waiting.”

“everything changes in time”

I am looking at myself in disgust

I am looking at the future with disgust

I am making my case once again,
this time in person,
this time
not to a voice
on the
telephone

I am making them believe

I am feeling the relief of approval,
the cool rush of recognition

I am still shaking

I am still not done

I am still watching myself writhe
with guilt and struggle with doubt

I am now confident though

I am now sure of the path I take,
of the future I pursue

I am watching myself
go through this pain,
again

I am slamming down the telephone
and redoubling my efforts

I graze now
boarding schools
of the highest
and utmost
quality

I want to run away
I want to start a new life
I want to create a new me,
in a new place,
in a new
world

I have reached the highest
point I can ever reach here

where can I go beyond this?

I’ve exhausted the resources
of my friends;
I’ve climbed the rungs of
power in theatre, poetry,
leadership;
I’ve created a society of
lies to protect myself and
hide myself from the truth
of the world, even as the
truth of my personality
slowly eats away at my
innards until I am hollow
and whistle in the wind

I do not take this act lightly,
I do not take abandoning my
friends,
my many years of work,
my reputation, good and bad.
I do not want to take what
I am away, but,
for my own sake,
I must

I deserve a new start,
a fresh start,
where I can be
whoever I want to be

I was gypped out of this opportunity
by birth, by my stable and even life
lived in only three houses, by my
poor luck to be so lucky, as to have
as good a life as I have been blessed

I do not complain about that
I complain about the jealousy
it boils in me for those people
whose parents are infirm and
irresponsible;
who are dragged from place
to place, never setting down
deep roots, by their owners;
who are given the opportunity
to be constantly dynamic whilst
my only option is to flounder
amongst a static tank

I am pained
by all this

by all this hate,
I have for the things
I love

by all these contradictions,
of the shoulds and
should-nots

by me,
showing, for once,
my human side
I cannot make sense
of the why’s and
the how’s
that my brain has
concluded thus
that I should move,
forget my past,
and start
anew

there’s a piece of
toilet paper
wedged in the toilet
hole

the music sounds
beautiful and sings
out my
speakers

dusk and dawn
are the same

there is black paper too

trumpets are the answer
to all the troubles in the
world

the internet is failing
and the system is corrupt

when we are not ourselves
but who we are connected to
we have ascended the
individual

the bottle is simple
yet perfect

the laugh is needed

sleep is an inevitability
reading a gateway drug
and family reads like an
autopsy report

the can, the sticker, the
empty pack, the deck of
cards, the plastic shades

there are empty glasses
and empty eyes

the mirror and the rock
are friends now

cough drops are a poison,
it’s written on the box.

keys to a car

doors that shut and lock
and can be opened if you
wiggle the ****

controllers control
nothing

eat your fate young child
the only solution is the fat

jokes in denial
humor in despair
tragedy is useless
comedy a joke

we say lines and
remember blocking
but the meaning is
lost somewhere in
the mist of person

you can hear the piano
but not the voice,
the telephone begs you
not to die

eat your fate,
speak your mind,
there’s a piece of
toilet paper stuck
in the toilet
hole

behind you
(and in front)
is everything,
nothing,
something,
everything,
something,
anything,
­
and

nothing

as I laid in bed
waiting on sandman
to carry me off
to sleepy-land
I thought about all
we had done
together

each date
each talk
each smile
each smirk
each fight
each hug
each kiss
each ****

and in the end,
when sandman finally
found his way to me,
he had to ask me why
I was smiling so
much

introspection
has long been
my escape
from
reality

as I sit here
gazing at the lips of flame
coming up from under
the wet log above them
I wonder why
I sit here
so alone
and
so
cold

I cannot seem to reach out

not in any good way
not in any bad way
only haphazardly
and impotently
like a snake
robbed of his
venom

I fear I cannot make a mark on this world

(if you want to control me,
abuse that fact)

I fear that I am not worthy to be remembered,
not worthy enough to even look at,
to talk with,
to be more than that ******
in the corner

even when I am the center of attention,
nobody wants to look.

I see the people across the flame
sleep comfortly
in the arms of those
they barely
know

the warmth they feel,
does not seep over to
me.

not even a smile,
not even a hello.

but I bring it on myself,
I know.

so I cannot complain.
I will not complain.

but I am still sad,
and this poem
is my only way
to get it out.

I feel the shivering of this night getting to me.
this cold world we live in haunts me, every day.

I am told
there is warmth
somewhere

and as I gaze upon
that somewhere
I have never felt more
far away from it

Ring-ring
Hear the bell? Understand
the meaning? Are you on
edge? Gotta move? Gotta
jet? Get where your going,
before the next one comes
round?

Ring-ring
The gates are open but
where does this go? You
don't know, you don't
care, but you know the
feeling of get up and go,
to run like a chicken with
its head cut off

The maze is our whole
life, our whole purpose,
everything we do

Ring-ring
ring-Ring

Your days are winding down
and your "friends" and "family"
and "teachers" and "employers"
and all the "people" who you
thought loved you is bearing
down,
telling you
"go, go, go"
when all you can think is
"no, no, no"

We are at the starting lines
of our dreams
(of our lives)

Ring-ring
A pistol goes off at birth
and we sprint away

Bodies litter the track
as you run faster, faster

Ring-ring
Times up

Ding
A different sound
Have you made it on the pedestal?

I'm in the stands
watching fools with ****** hands
and feet run in circles

Once
I was down with you
Thinking
"Go, go, go"
But realized
"No, no, no"
Where are we going?
To what end?
For what purpose?

I looked up from my dusty shoes
And saw the audience that had always encircled us
I saw old racers clamber up into the stands
And realized
"That's the where,

why waste my life trying to be recognized,
when I can just jump up
(in my youth)
and enjoy this
"prize"
without the
"effort"

the writing of a poem,
much like the taking of a ****,
is most satisfying when
it is large, slightly painful,
and locks you away in a small
room for what seems like
hours

and it was Bukowski
who said that the most satisfying
part of this is flushing
it away

seeing it go forth
into places that you.
yourself, shall never
have the heart to
brave

just now
I remembered
why I like
writing

times now
are so intrusive

everybody knows
but I’ve got nothing
to hide

there’s no effort
in being myself

but then the poem comes along
the person who really wants to
know what I think

everybody else,
they just want the dirt,
the scandal, the drama,
they don’t want the truth
unless it gives them five
minutes of entertainment
and a charred husk of a
person to mock after their
done

but the poem,
you that wonderful
person,
comes up to me and
says:
“I’m all ears”

so I tell her,
tell her my thoughts,
good and bad,
the truth, the lies,
the questions, the doubts
and she listens
but very seldom
does she answer
in her own voice

no,
she prefers to answer in silence
finding that I will solve my own
crisis more often than not

and that’s why I like her,
she is wise without ever
saying anything, and each
day we talk a little bit seeps
into me with the more words
I bring into the world

maybe it’s a nervous breakdown
I am twitching a lot
moving my feet and hands
in alternate patterns constantly
and I can’t seem to think
everything sounds like static
so maybe it’s my body finally shutting down
slowly tearing down the whole show
letting people see how it really is
and I can’t figure out why
but something is definitely happening
and I’m sitting here, watching myself,
seeing all that I am come apart at the seams
letting loose what little I have within me
so that it can flutter off
into the dark and rainy
night

out of nowhere,
the summer storm
sets in

there is blue
and there is
grey and there
is not rain
yet

a single thunderbolt,
that rings out for seconds,
minutes, hours, years,
cracks through the day-
time sky and demands
attention for what it
will not do

a hush fell over the universe
those Christmas eve nights
when we would toddle through
the snow, up to the tiny house
where the rest of my family
had already gathered and begun
celebrating

it was in these quiet nights
that I understood everything
I needed to about our existence;
that it was fragile, that is was
insignificant, and that it was
unavoidable

though I could hear nothing
and see nothing, I could feel
the entirety of the world roll
away through that darkness

there was so much to do come
the morning, but for now, we
had to reunite with the others
and celebrate the two-thousand
something birthday of some
desert-dwelling hobo

a Merry Christmas to you,
dear reader, I hope you too
have received gifts as good
as this

out of the daylight,
out of the bright walls of my mind,
out of the clear blue sky,

it creeps out on ten legs
it creeps out on beetle’s feet
it creeps out on the shores of my mind

looking at me it smiles it’s dark smile
looking at me it sees the fear
looking at me it knows

jumping up it begins its first steps told me
jumping up it extends its wings to show its power
jumping up it takes the last bit of hope I had

on top of me it does not speak
on top of me it does not attack
on top of me it only stares

in my soul I feel its truth
in my soul I feel the sun hot on my face
in my soul I feel the message it sends

my brain acknowledges it means no harm
my brain acknowledges relaxing and calming
my brain acknowledges death as it comes

what is left is a body without a heart
what is left is a brain without a mind
what is left is a corpse without purpose

the insect king came from within me
the insect king came from the good parts not the bad
the insect king came and went and left me as I was

I am now rotting and yet growing
I am now a child of my murderer
I am now the king of death who fears
only one thing:

being brought back to life,
and mortality,
and morality.

I have decided
I am not naturally
anything good

I am ugly
and imperfect
and untalented
and unnecessary

but

I am not
disheartened

I am the black coal
waiting for the earth
to create a diamond

I am the dinner
not yet fully cooked
or ready to serve

I am the boy
waiting on time
to let me be a
man

I am a tired soul
awaiting the end
of an endless life

my hull has battered many
more storms
then any single ship
should ever have
to weather
and
still
I have a whole
life left to
live

I am a tired soul
awaiting a port
to finally dock in

my mast has been broken
over and over,
the sails
torn through
one too many
times,
and
the lower decks
leak with an
unnerving
drip

I am a tired soul
floating about on
a deserted ocean

my fleet is gone,
my crew abandoned,
and I have only
time and
the sea
as a companion
into the
adventure that
is death


I am a tired soul
facing the kraken’s
wide, gaping jaws

my time has come,
as the story
goes,
but in my
final moments
I can attempt one
last show of
bravery
and
jump
towards my
fate

steal brandished

a man stopped by today.

he worse sunglasses, shorts,
a loose, breathable button-up,
and open-toed shoes.

he asked to come in and
I let him. he complemented
the living room and the
kitchen.

“what a look. so different
from all those California
shacks back home.”

“California?” I said,
“you’re far away
from home.”

“oh, I’m closer than
you’d think.”

what he lacked in formality
he made up for in mystery.

he asked me where he was,
he seemed to be lost.

“Atlanta” I said.

“where you headed?”
I added, after a
pause.

“oh, nowhere.” he said,
“just thought I’d get my
bearings.”

he let himself out then,
leaving me with only
that.

I am a stranger
in a strange
land

When asked the time
of day I give numbers
instead of letters

The blank stares
of others
offers no comfort
or help

In a city of well-kept glass,
on roads they’d have you
think were gold, there are
men and women and children
living lives they’d call
“happy”

with a strange feeling
of aloneness,
I cut swath across their
ranks, asking each man
and women and
child:

“what do you mean
you’re happy?”

from the glazed over eyes,
to the obvious lies,
to the corruption and
hatred and greed

above all things I’ve seen
between all things I need
below me I see a great depth

where are the reporters?
the conspirators? the
malcontents? where are
the watchdogs we call
nary-do-wells? or their
brothers the minor
senators? what happened
to religion? and faith
and belief? what happened
to god and to justice?
why are the front doors
closed and the back
doors open? why do
we not look into our
eyes? what happened
to us? all of us? every
one? where have I been
and now gone?

my restless eyes,
quite hypnotized,
cannot comprehend
or think of the
truth

that this land that I’m in,
this one stranger than fiction,
is in fact, my own, and no
other

each word now
comes harder
than
the
last

this poem
is an admission
of my
strife

voices fill
the air
around me
and yet,
my voice
can barely
whimper

I am rushing towards an explosion
of my character

my mind will burst out my ears
and my words will burst out my
eyes and the person everyone
thought I was will be splattered
against the walls while my real
form stands naked for all to see

this fuse within in me comes
dangerously close to the bomb
hid behind my stoic face

the bodies hold me back
and the fuse burns slowly
faster with each person
that stands in the way

three,
two,
one,
I count,
seeing the fuse
come all the way
to the bomb

but then

nothing

psst.
fizzle.

the day goes on
and I am still a
ticking bomb

there is a beautiful world
just outside my window,
unattainable and smug.

I sigh
I’m passing her again
that black mistress
that sits in the corner gathering dust
I miss her,
I guess,
but I remember
why I left
and why
she now gathers dust

I sigh
running my fingers over her obsidian surface
old girl, I remember
the music,
the fun,
the tears,
the fret,
oh I remember

I remember
and
I sigh

it’s been what?
2-3 years now?
it was hard
but it was the piano I broke up with
it was playing her,
learning to play her,
learning all her special places,
learning how to make her sing
like she’ll only let a few make
her

I lift the key guard
play a single note
I retract the hand,
the key is hot iron,
then I hit it again,
not so hot this time,
then I play, play a
song that I remember,
the only song I
remember

I did not do it long
just enough to remind
me how bad I was

but putting the key guard down
and leaving the old girl to her
dust I realized something:

I had returned to the piano,
and once again I had made
her sing in that wonderful
way

it feels like years
but it was just
hours ago
when I finally let the flame
burning in the pit
of my soul
free for the first time
for all to see
and I screamed
for the first time
for all to hear

smoke billowed from my mouth
and as they
looked in and saw
my throat all scars and burns
they were horrified
and shocked
at how bad
I had let it get

they tried to put it out
but they couldn’t know
that it had been put out
for a long while now
that the black clouds were all a shadow
of what had once been an all-consuming fire
that burned silently behind my eyes
charring everything that passed through
them before I could ever even know
if it was beautiful or not

but this could have all happened
to someone else with the same burnings
that go unnoticed, unfelt by most
because that’s how I remember it
the man talking on the telephone
was not me
and the world I exposed myself to
was not her

so was the fire revealed?
is it still a pile of ash?
are the embers put out?
am I finally free?

I could not tell you
even if I listened
very, very
closely

I cannot offer closure to
those who lose their loved ones
or whose children die
or parents die
or whose companies fail
or banks empty
or women run out
or bottles empty
or whose demons eat at them
or doubts destroy them
or whose lives are as hallow
as a Carron beetle cooked for
centuries under an unforgiving
sun

I can only offer a chance
to those who thought there
was none
to those who didn’t realize
there was a way out
or that they weren’t done for,
just yet

I give them a minute,
two perhaps,
where they can choose
to do
or
not

and this alone is all
the universe allows

I suppose if anybody hates me
they can sleep soundly at night
knowing that I’m being punished
for whatever crime they think
I’ve committed

I can’t find happiness anymore
not in my old tricks, not in my
new tricks. everything I’ve ever
known is uninteresting or, even
worse, disgusting

I am going to sleep until I do
not remember what waking is

I have lost, nothing, and yet I
feel like everything’s gone

honesty, the true and whole
expression of the being who
we actually are, is my most
key and integral tenet

I forgive the meek, the lazy,
the angry, the godless, the
misunderstood, the ignorant,
and the infirm if only they
admit to me they are those
things

+

living in a society of lies,
I have grown to value the
little grains of truth I can
mine out of this world

the reasons people are afraid
of the dark, the motivations
that drive some to attack other,
and the lusts hidden away in
trunks and drawers and dark
places are just some of the
gems I have extracted

those are too dramatic though,
they do not reflect why I value
their kind so, for they are jewels
sought out by others, for more
greedy, selfish reasons

they are my prize because
they are real. they are the
reality in room of mirrors.

they ground while the
world takes flight.

amongst them are simpler things:
true opinion, small desires, empty
thoughts, the questions raised when
the teacher turns her back, the terrors
that haunt others in their sleep, the
different paths that all minds take

these are what I seek,
what  I desire and lust
for

+

my life is spoiled, in many ways,
by the juxtaposition of possibility
with inevitability

the assumption of the later is
proved false by the first

one can never be forced to play
a game, there are always many
others, or there is always death

+

I find myself on the edge
of a blade, slowly cutting
the two halves of myself
into feuding worlds

those smart and those willing
now war against those attracted
to comfort and to chance

I stand at the center,
my form withering
as I grow

tonight, I sleep under the grey clouds,
hoping the rain will wash away the
sin

so long with sickness
can make a man sick

permanently sick,
sick more with sickness
than the disease itself,
a poison that lives in your blood,
in your veins, which engrains deeper
with each beat of your heart,
each thought in your mind
becomes toxic, sick,
but you become used to it;
so much in pain
you hardly notice it any more
constantly on the edge of a breakdown
fearful of everything, fearful of yourself,
and that, that is the illness
I’ve been living with
for so long now,
I hardly knew what it was like
to live without it

my limbs are light
my mind jittery with the lifted
weight

what now? I wonder

everything,
I suppose.

I look out upon the empire that never knew night
there upon the top, of Cathedral St. Paul; I ran so
high, so fast, my legs now wobble in the cold air.

Uncomfortable I felt, within the sacred place, but
out here, atop the harrowing and haughty dome,
I know the meaning and purpose of all existence.

The British, though snooty and over-confident as
they may be, knew the power of over-doing and
over-creating and showed so for so many years.

Now, I looked at the shell of what was, a great
city that begs to differ on the current state of
world affairs, judged by the people of the streets.

They dare the world to laugh at them,
at their once great kingdom that came
all around the globe and back again,
but who now barely reaches an hour’s
travel across, at any point or intersection.

And we cannot do it. For they are the great and
the once great all in one and we, the Americans,
owe our lives to their ambition, and our freedom
to their failures.

I clip my finger-
nails
listen to
pointless music
and try
to write a decent
poem

when will I
be able to call
myself a
“poet”

I refuse to
do it now
for fear of being
shot down
by the vultures
that constantly
circle over-
head

and in truth,
I don’t believe
it

I’m not like Hemmingway,
or Whitman, or Dickinson,
or Buk

I’m not wise,
I haven’t seen
the world,
I don’t know
anything about
anything
and most of all

I’m a kid

they’re all grown,
old or dead by the
time they garnered
any fame


and I’m sixteen,
a neophyte in a
generation of
lazy degeneration

but I am not part of
my generation, I am
privy to its problems
but stoic to its culture

I stand aside while
standing atop

I clip the final
finger, the pinky
of my left hand,
and the music
churns to a halt

I count all the poems
I’ve written

over five-hundred,
I chuckle

suppose I’m a poet
even if I’m a tad

untraditional

I see myself
for the first time
looking into the mirror
that adorns the space
above my bathroom
counter-top
and up to
the ceiling

I look beautiful
yet
tragic

there in my boxers,
holding a bottle of
something in my
hand, and having
this look in my eyes
as if to say, “this
is all there is to
me”

although my stance,
and my face, and my
eyes, and fingers, and
toes all scream that I am
dying in my mind and
in my heart; my mouth
breaks apart and smiles
in a way that only the
purest of children know

what does that smile mean?

is it that small glimmer of
hope I have left, the tiny
light at the end of tunnel?

or is it my ignorance, my
stubborn will, my hard-
headed optimism that will
be bested in the end?

or is it just a smile, true and
pure, from looking at me in this
full-length mirror?

I am the colliding border of
the two storm fronts known
as logic and passion and to
make matters worse a twister
of sudden boredom has shot
up to make things all the more
difficult

I see myself in this mirror
stripped down to my under-
pants and yet I still can’t
see anything that’s really
inside

each day I must step up
to this mirror and look
into it

each day you will have
to step up too

in my mirror,
I see something beautiful
yet tragic,
in a way very few will ever
understand

in your mirror,
I do not know what you
see
but I hope you see some-
thing
and my hope is that you
can be happy with what
it is

hands black and red
stained with work
and self-fulfillment

“hell,
is your destination.”
he says
to me
so sure in his
rightousness
that he does not
consider
his acid-throwing
even possibly
wrong

“you sinner!
you blasphemer!
you blatant and
obvious servant
of Lucifer!”

“burn,
you shall,
in the depths
of the devil’s
cavern!”

“you should know
better
than to ally with
anyone else
but Him”

“beg God,
beg Him,
for forgiveness
and maybe,”

“just maybe,”

“you might
live in limbo
or correct
yourself within
purgatory”

“confess yourself,
young sinner!
confess yourself
and be free!”

he yells to me

so what you say,
I respond,
is that
I cannot
be anything else
but hell-
spawn?

for what?

for doing what
I think is right?

for coming up
with my own ideas?

for thinking that,
perhaps,
I can be happy
without an
imaginary
friend?

“IMAGINARY?”

yes!
yes,
imaginary!
fake!
ma­de-up!
a fallacy!
an abortion
of some terrified
cave-man’s
brain!

He
is not
real
but we,
we are!

“you’re going to hell”
he muttered
under his
breath

no I’m not!
I responded
I’ll just be
dirt and
dust and
be fine
with that

what better heaven could there be?

what
has happened to
the world
we
live in
now?

no man knows the meaning of trust,
of love,
of friendship,
of innocence.

the children are perverted
by other children

the adults made paranoid
by other adults

the idiots turned manic
by other idiots

the wise men turned wiser
by no one

this world we live in now
is tearing at the seams and
threatens to fall apart

but we have been here before.

we,
man,
were here at the dawn
of our existence

fighting against the wild creatures
and the twistings of mother nature

we were at this breaking point
and we survived.

we, man,
were here at the dawn
of the current era

destroying all that we knew
about the past and rebuilding
it in the hands of new men

we, man,
were here in the great war,
in the second great war, in
the war of the capitalists and
the communists, in the war
against the terror that still
goes on today

we were at the breaking point,
the chaos of it all spilling over
into things we didn’t think
could be tainted,

and yet we came back,
greater than
before.

we,
man,
humanity,
people,

have gone to the edge of existence,
even jumped from it,
without thinking of the doom
that awaited us
at the bottom of this
rocky cliff,

and yet we came back.

back from freefall.
back from oblivion.
back from hell.
back from the dark ages.

we came back.

again
and
again
and
again.

and who is to say we won’t come back?

we came back

we, together, fought against the plagues,
at the sickly parasites that drained our
powers and success, at the people that
refused to accept the future and held back
all those that they could,

and we won.

We won and we
won and we won.

won.
won.
won.

together.

and we can do it
again

together,
I know,
we
can.

I wrestle with myself
tonight

I fight with my darker half,
my bleaker thoughts,
my niggling doubts

he throws punches,
jabs at my ribs,
socks my eyes,
kicks in my knees

sometimes he hits me too hard,
in too soft a place, and I snap

I erupt

my rage boils over

I barrel back at him,
fists and feet blazing,
my arms stretching out
and then back but never
ringing true to flesh or
bone or anything

there is no way to fight
him because he is right

he’s a master at turning this
all against me

he knows what I know
(how hopeless this life
thing is) and he reminds
me each time I fail and
each time I am just weak
enough to believe him

he loves it when I try
to prove him wrong

(because I never can)

I wrestle with myself
today

I fight against the certainty
that death is the end

that darker half,
those bleaker thoughts,
my purposeless existence
and each constant
reminder

I wrestle with him
each day

he grabs my collar,
shakes me about,
spits in my face, and
calls me a coward

he laughs and
waits for me to burst
into that perfect
inferno

but I don’t, most days,
certainly, not tonight

he’s not getting to me
tonight

so I get up,
wipe his filth off my face,
shrug my shoulders
and leave

he smirks, knowing another show-down
is only a bad day or bad moment away

exits are both ways
they need more food on here
grumble grumble my head says

civil lights against the black earth
sleepy eyes and silent faces of the
people around me
so many moving so fast without so
much as a flinch when we begin to
go

it is 7:04 and I think of the train ride home

a man jumped in front of a train
the cookies we bought were good
yet cold
it was fun for me but a stress I’m
sure for my grandma and her friend

it is 7:07 and I think of the time before the train

we lost my mom and grandma
the tube stop told us where the
real train station was
young cabbies always seem to
be the quietest and least helpful
of the bunch

it is 7:08 and I think of even before then

there was an itlaian woman on the train,
asking her husband for a baby
castles do not amuse me much, I’m not
one for old things or christianity
it’s cold and dark here but nobody seems
to mind

it is the evening of novemeber 26th

you can’t say you didn’t see it coming
nothing like that passes away peacefully
the fire was inevitable, and each night
while you slept next to her, you thought
of all the ways things were going bad

you two never talked, she loved you
but did you love her? and did she even
love you? maybe you were just a wallet
to her, once the money ran out so did
her love, how could you even know,
you never really talked to her anymore

so when the news came in and ****
hit the fan, you were not surprised
hurt, yes, you were hurt, but not
surprised, it would a lie and an insult
to say that

it was impossible to feel the pain
like you were supposed to because
you had already felt it, let it go, and
moved on a thousand times before
as you faded into sleep next to her

the pain was a dull poison, one you’d
already been injected with before and
had long since become immune to but
it still made you sick, didn’t it? you still
felt it, but you refused to feel it, because
why should you? you knew this was
coming

so in the months prior, as things returned
to normalcy and life resumed its course,
you began feeling all those feelings you
were supposed to be feeling all those
months ago

it didn’t hit you suddenly, not like a heart
attack or a crushing realization, much more
like a stomach virus or a creeping realization:
there was the vague feeling of sickness and,
then, you were puking, left dying by the toilet
as all this inner turmoil worked its way
out of you

that lasted for a long time didn’t it?
and it felt good didn’t it?

you didn’t see this coming, because you’d
lived with the pain for so long, you no longer
thought there was release from it, you had
long since realized and long since accepted
that the city had burned to the ground and
it was all your fault because you laid in bed
next to her, utterly terrified, incapable of
the strength necessary to save her and you,
and when the first sparked you let it burn
because to you, there was no other way

what you learned with each heave was this:
you ****** you. she ****** up more. get
over it. get on with things. look out that
window there. see that blue sky? see that
white sun? those were going to be yours,
but instead you laid underneath a blue moon
and prayed for a solution to emerge from
the black night, and now it has.

then, like a light-switch,
the world was bright again.

riding a rollercoaster
and losing your shoes
in the chasm below

sneaking out to a concert
and meeting your parents
there

trying new food
in a hole-in-the-wall
restaurant

picking up a guitar and
playing till your fingers
hurt

saying hi to the new kid
every day until he isn’t
new anymore

writing poetry about watching cats
or drinking soda or driving at night

watching the end of your favorite movie
and thinking of all the things you want in
the sequel

yelling till your lungs hurt
and crying till it doesn’t hurt
anymore

eating ice cream at
two in the afternoon

watching the sun set on the beach

forgetting about your uncomfortable chair
because the book your reading is just that
good

finding meaning in simple things

shaking somebody’s hand
when you know they’re proud
of you

walking around
in a new pair of
shoes

getting in a fight with a plastered guy
in a tiny theatre because he you couldn’t
hear the actors over his yelling

doing something you should never do
again and again and again

not being happy,
always

finally asking out the girl
you’ve been crazy about
for seven years

doing something stupid and
brave and messing up, big
time

listening to a song
and
feeling your heart soar

eating **** because you
****** up

rising up from pain and agony
and forgetting it, swallowing it
whole and breathing out all the
emotions that boil out

carefully holding your new-borne child

smiling

these are some moments
in a good life, not entirely
my own

may you fill your life with some of these
or fill in these pages with a few moments
of your own

if it makes me happy,
it’s not good for me,
in fact, it’s worse for me,
because I get addicted

if it’s tasty,
I over-eat it,
if it’s interesting,
I over study it
if it’s fun,
I over-do it

if it appeases my addictions,
I’ll do anything for it

women
poetry
diet coke
sweets

these are all delights
I cannot have
for they are poison,
to me

I’ve had trouble writing
all throughout this trip

you’d think in London,
an unfamiliar and
wild place,
I would find inspiration
in everything
but alas,
I have found
none

writing has become so integral
to my life
that I sense changes,
in myself,
when I cannot make
them

a man puts a bag above me
my sister twiddles her thumbs
women too old or too pretty for me are everywhere
but two perfect ones are in the next section up
my hand writing is messy
it’s warm in here
it’ll be cold at 30,000 feet

why can’t I write
about all of that?

I get angry
or
annoying
when I can’t
write

I sometimes put bars on my I’s
sometimes not

I tell everyone else my thoughts

my friends, my family,
my mom, my dad, my
sister, my hobo on the
street, my anything else
but the page

yet the page is the only one that doesn’t go
“shush”

a lady texts
someone was working below the toilet
I’ve got a **** week ahead
the exit sign is interesting to me
my music speaks to me too much now a days

I feel better

the ink on the page smiles at me

she’s the one
who sits in the corner
at the big party,
phone in hand
anxious
tapping her fingers after
sending one message
and awaiting the
next,
she doesn’t look around
just down
at the carpet
till she is shocked by
the buzz of her cell
phone,
then she reads furiously,
types madly,
doesn’t even notice
you quietly observing her
from across the
room

she is the girl
who is so obsessed
with one specific person’s love
that she refuses
love from anywhere
else

she cuts her hair short,
studs herself with odd
earring, and says “I love
you” but never to anyone
she means it to

she does not eat
in an attempt to
punish her soul

she does not really know
what you say to her
only that
you make noise
and distract
her
from her next
text

she will destroy you
if you interrupt her

she is in control
but makes no
decisions

she sits,
in the corner,
hoping the next
check of her phone
contains all the
things she’s
been hoping
for

she is there,
alone,
slowly becoming part
of the
furniture

low

deep

soft
and
yet
cold

a
single
place
that
can
hold
only
o­ne
but
thousands
visit
each
and
every
day

the
sun
always
setting­

the
day
never
ending

the
place
we
all
know
that
we
all
hate
and
yet
love
in
a
way
that
keeps
us
from
letting
go

the true victims of humanity are the men strong
enough to forgive those who make them victims

somewhere,
a woman lights a cigarette
outside a central London flat
pulling her jacket in close,
her scarf closer, the night
is her closest friend

when a man approaches her,
he will say hello, smile a toothy
smile, and ask her if she has
an extra cigarette

she, of course, does
and hands it to him
and lights it for him

he laughs and smiles that
toothy smile again and she
returns the favor

they will forget the cold then
somehow

and this simple moment
is how humanity advances,
each lumbering step as
delicate as a caterpillar
trudging across the easy
flower of a spring day

watch for the water
it will draw out first
and you will feel it pull at your legs
begging you to venture out into the sea
but you will overcome it
and that is her
trick

she will come back
with all of her strength
and you will be weak if
you are not careful

don’t get caught up in the tidal wave
when you feel the water drain away
dig your heels in deeper
tense your muscles
grit your teeth
brace yourself

watch for the water
it will draw out first
and then come back
with more strength
then you could ever
know

today
is not
going to be
a good
day

that little tingle,
that tiny nudge,
that niggling pain
in the back of
my mind

it’s doubt

it’s fear

it’s just
enough
to knock me
over the
edge

I will plummet

down into the pits
of my depressive
self where I will
die and be reborn
and die again

nothing will happen

time will not stop
but my eyes will
only see visions of
hell

today,
may be
****

it may be
terrible,
and horrific
and leave me begging
for death

or maybe
not

maybe,
I’ll rise above

maybe,
I’ll be happy
despite the
doubts

maybe,
maybe
I will.

I face my past tomorrow

with a bandana across my eyes
and a cigarette hanging
out of my mouth

I expect the worst
and
deserve the worst
and
I do not care

I am turning my back on what was
and turning forward to what may be

am I arrogant?
perhaps

but I feel it only fitting
to look back at all their angry
faces with knowing
smirk

laughing at them
for hardly expecting it,
and even more so for
not having a clue
why