Am I really upset over this shopping cart?
This cart that is full of heavy and huge products.
Am I upset over how many people may make me stop and block my path in this store?
Every single one, just trying to get by, with their very own shopping cart.
No.
It must be this feeling of being unheard.
To follow and soon becoming lead.
But where is progression when those who follow, don’t.
Annoyance, overstimulation, anger, boil.
Every stop, turn, push.
Stop.
Turn.
Push.
Is it my fault we’re here?
Perhaps next time I’ll come alone.

Fck these words,
no one really reads much anymore anyways,
thought we were on the precipice of a Literary Renaissance,
but I was wrong we’re all too far gone to really care,

fck these words,
should’ve just shot a ****,
maybe then you’d at least give me a few minutes of your time,
maybe then I’d be able to get these thoughts into you,

fck these words,
maybe I should rephrase that,
make love with these words,
let me rephrase that,

fck these words,
fck politically correct,
Donald Trump is winning the election,
our country is the **** of a bad racist joke,

we’ve gone numb,
seen so many murders on the big screen,
that when our own character is assassinated,
we don’t even blink we just shut our eyes,
we will bring flowers to the funeral,
but we won’t tell them we love them when they’re alive,
we’ll write a beautiful eulogy once they’re dead,
but we won’t send a postcard while they’re still living,
lost my adopted father,
saw his wife and daughter cry,
and after missing two seasons of holidays,
I only came out to see him after he died,
and honestly it’s hard to feel connected to a black casket,
so I blocked out the white noise and read my eulogy,
then I flew back to Hollywood after the 21 gun salute in DC,
because I’m a narcissist and I think the world revolves around me,
but I am not the Sun,
I am barely even a son,
I just think I’m someone somewhat important,
because I’ve ****** out my words and thousands read my naked verses,

fck these words,
fck these fckn words,
I swear to God I’ll shut my MacBook for good,
pull that trigger and open up my mind maybe then I’ll be understood,

shock therapy,
self promotion,
suicide doesn’t answer any questions,
but it sure is an all-inclusive simple solution,

pollution,
in my atmosphere,
is there anything I can write,
that will really make anyone really care?

Seriously,
I’m asking a serious question,
share a few moments of your time with me,
and I’ll give you me entire eternity,

my heart is on fire and it’s burning me,
I need some fresh air,
I need some new hope,
I need to not need anything,
anymore,

I am a fckn *****,
I told you that before,
we all are in our own ways,
that’s the reality of this world,

and I try and write to find redemption,
because I’ll sleep with a *******,
then donate a thousand dollars to a charity,
I’m an unbearably uncontainable contradiction of virtues,

writing the madness of us all,
writing with the urgency of a conductor as his train careens off the track,
flying over the edge of a mountain cliff in slow motion,
getting out the final proses before it’s all over for all of us,

fck these words,
fck them until you’re sweating out all your pores,
until you’re coming over and over with these words,
until you become overly sensitive from overstimulation and you’re begging for no more,

until we are both exhausted,
laying there in the thick humid silence of a passed moment,
staring up at forever tunnel vision bright lights everything blurs,
and we become memories of our passed selves and all that’s left are these words…

∆ Aaron La Lux ∆
www.amazon.com/dp/B01I4621OE

Volume 1 of my new trilogy about Hollywood is now available worldwide.
I’ve decided to donate ALL of the profits of this new trilogy to three charities.
Volume 1 profits will go to a charity that prevents abuse and ****** assault on children.
Please support my new book and by doing so you’ll not only be helping prevent ****** assault,
but you’ll also be helping set an important precedent in making a statement to other artist,
saying that we all need to start giving back and helping each other more than we have.
PLUS you’ll also be getting an epic book of poetry from an epic best selling poet.
Let’s make charity cool and change the perception of coolness for the better.
Who cares what car you drive or what clothes you wear anymore?
What matters is what you’re doing to help those with less.
We live in this world together and can all give more.

It took me six months and thousands of dollars to create this trilogy in it’s entirety,
and all I am asking for in return is a few dollars and a few minutes of your time.
We made the last book I published #1 worldwide and we can do it again.
Simply purchase a copy now for less than it cost for a cup of coffee,
and/or PLEASE WRITE AN HONEST REVIEW about the book.
I’ve priced the book as low as I possibly could with Amazon.
And honestly If you really don’t have 3 dollars to spend,
at least REPOST this message,
or RESPOND to this message,
or something,
anything.
Love.
∆

Here is the link for purchasing/reviewing the book:
www.amazon.com/dp/B01I4621OE

Pain's accretion--black snaked with royal purple--
therewith and more of, in cold case of less--
pain inexorable.
Fear's favorite pet spoilt with handling.
Pain's redemptive quality is repulsed by plain
sight, it must mobilize malignancy, purloin the
jury, condemn, palm hope to hopelessness.
Fixity--its host must remain in firm attendance.
Enough is ready...a ripened type of monologue...
the crosshairs of silence.
To grow demented from overstimulation,
breaking the same news to what needs dying.
Fetal position suffices...warm, a spinning vinyl
record scratching toward dawn.
The woodwork calls a name--as a woman hoarse...
with labor pain...rebirth.

Pain ****** at my eyes as I try to escape,
Try to shut out the cacophonous clamor
Attacking me from all sides at once.
I cannot defend myself from this.
I raise my hands to shield myself,
To clutch at my ears, drown out the noise.
Sensory overload, they call it,
Overstimulation and unfamiliarity.
I gasp and plead to be taken away,
But my words fall flat, and I suffocate,
Heart racing, wild, dizzy as my head spins.
Is this what it means to be lost?
I’m going to lose control, going to slip,
I’m going to I’m going to I’m going to-
Silence.
A hand in mine.
An anchor.
Grounding me.
Pulling me back.
My mind calms,
Slowly, surely.
You, patient,
Never pushing.
I collect myself.
I gather my thoughts, one at a time.
One moment, one person, one deep breath.
Do you know what you’ve done?
Do you know what you saved me from?
You were there, strong, firm,
The touch of your hand on mine,
Your hand gentle on my waist,
Soft and utterly secure, there with me.
You let us just be, silence growing;
You led me back from the edge,
Into safety, security, serenity.
I am back in the moment once again
With you, safe, warm, happy.
Is it strange of me to say
That you feel like home?

Writhing is the brain, hair stood on end, 

with every beat of the eldritch heart. 

The air, a-buzz with cacophonous, insectoid droning, 

threatening to infiltrate and indoctrinate the mind;



twisting languid listening into a maddening gaze,

ablaze with hate and lacking sophistication. 



I cling, with fingers tensed, to the heavy, sticky rot

that lingers thickly in the air, 

and all my cares are gnawing at my soul. 



Something stirring deep within has heightened, 

and I’m frightened, finding myself once again 

scared of the dark. 



A darkness creeping deep within my dreams, 

which, snaking, strangles me; and when I wake 

I find I’m face down in contorted misery, 

like something ghostly sought to swallow me

alive. 



Wretched wasteful 

-undue, unholy and unsanctioned- 

sour tasting, ugly, rank: 

anxiety