HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
It's obvious to see that I'm smiling and laughing uncontrollably.
Guess what?
It's over you, asshole.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Don't make me laugh.
I seriously can't stop.
I can't see you getting along in life.
Look at you, with your job and steady income.
You couldn't cut it.
She left you.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Asshole.
Don't be so kind to yourself.
Go the fuck home.
Nobody wants you here, dickhead.
You won't get anywhere in life.
Go back to your suburbia, Jesus.
Who the fuck do you think you are?
I'm glad to see that she sees you the same as I.
For once.
For once. She didn't shred one tear.
Because Whatsername doesn't care anymore.
You're gone in her mind, asshole!
You're dirt!
You've become what you hate!
Grit your teeth. Go ahead.
I'll still be laughing all the way.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
What's that?
She's the best you ever had?
But you can get along?
Aw! Look who's grown up!
Just a memory you say?
Nice fucking tattoo then.
Stop being so fucking poetic and walk away.
You're too young and healthy looking.
Leave town before it leaves you.
Don't you dare insult me.
Keep running.
Just go.
Now.
-- St. Jimmy
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Pulling Titles
I am the American Idiot.
I am the Jesus of Suburbia.
This is my City of the Damned, but I Don't Care.
You are my Dearly Beloved.
Are you listening?
My holidays are great, but they're followed by Tales of Another Broken Home.
Because of where I am, I walk on the Boulevard of Broken Dreams.
I walk alone.
I walk with my fists clenched at my side so I don't hurt anyone.
I walk with my head pointed at the ground because of the jealousy and rage and love.
Are we the Waiting?
We are the Waiting.
I am the waiting.
I am St. Jimmy.
I am whoever you want me to be.
I am not going to take this anymore.
But I do.
Give me Novocaine.
I can't take this.
I can't. I can't.
Don't make me.
Jimmy calls me a dickhead.
Mr. Two Dollar Bill.
I need my own mind.
I need to let myself go.
I need to go anywhere but here.
I'm in my corner of my own mind.
She's a rebel.
She's a saint.
Why does she run away?
Nobody likes you.
Everyone hates you.
They're all out without you.
Having fun.
With each other.
Don't fucking feel like that.
There is no fucking right for that.
No fucking right, do you hear me?
No. No.
Give me Novocaine.
She's an Extraordinary Girl.
She runs.
Where have all the martyrs gone?
Where is the underbelly?
Where are the holy scriptures of the shopping mall?
Covered up.
Just like everything else.
Underneath that paint is St. Jimmy's own scarlet.
St. Jimmy knows what to do.
Mr. Two Dollar Bill.
Give me Novocaine.
Wake Me Up When September Ends.
September arrives too soon in October.
Count by ides for me, will you?
Now he's dead to me.
He blew his brains out and I helped.
The ides arrived too soon, Mr. Two Dollar Bill.
Let the seagulls have him.
Am I the one stuck in the rain with the shallow dreams of hope?
Why are my hopes in the short end of the pool?
He was the light in the beginning.
My ticket out.
My way gone.
Now he's gone.
I couldn't be prouder.
She's gone.
No. No. No.
She's not allowed to be.
I just wanted to get my life together.
I had a job.
I had security.
I had a way to live.
I worked at East 12th Street and allowed you to live.
But I guess it wasn't rebellious enough.
She left with the words ringing in my head.
You've become what you've hated.
Nobody likes you.
Everyone hates you.
They're all out without you,
having fun.
No.
I need my coffee break.
After ten cups of coffee, you're still not here.
You're gone.
No.
I need you.
You opened your eyes and didn't like me.
I love you.
Where'd you go?
Thank you for that peace of inspiration Tully.
I don't know where to go.
I'm stuck between my home and my vacation home of freedom.
It would be more obvious but I can't think like that.
I am the son of rage and love.
The Jesus of Suburbia.
I'll always be a great memory.
Where'd you go?
Home.
We're coming home again.
I'm running until my lungs burst and crash in on themselves.
Until the saliva runs try and I choke on my own air.
I'm running until both the shoes and my soul have nothing.
I'm hitting the ground running.
I'm coming home.
---------------
You left.
I thought I saw you.
You were as clear as day.
Why?
Was it a dream?
A daydream?
Is it the Starbucks or the paint fumes?
I don't remember your name.
Your face I'll never forget.
I love Whatsername.
I love you.
=============
Yeah not really original in terms of idea but whatever.
I am the Jesus of Suburbia.
This is my City of the Damned, but I Don't Care.
You are my Dearly Beloved.
Are you listening?
My holidays are great, but they're followed by Tales of Another Broken Home.
Because of where I am, I walk on the Boulevard of Broken Dreams.
I walk alone.
I walk with my fists clenched at my side so I don't hurt anyone.
I walk with my head pointed at the ground because of the jealousy and rage and love.
Are we the Waiting?
We are the Waiting.
I am the waiting.
I am St. Jimmy.
I am whoever you want me to be.
I am not going to take this anymore.
But I do.
Give me Novocaine.
I can't take this.
I can't. I can't.
Don't make me.
Jimmy calls me a dickhead.
Mr. Two Dollar Bill.
I need my own mind.
I need to let myself go.
I need to go anywhere but here.
I'm in my corner of my own mind.
She's a rebel.
She's a saint.
Why does she run away?
Nobody likes you.
Everyone hates you.
They're all out without you.
Having fun.
With each other.
Don't fucking feel like that.
There is no fucking right for that.
No fucking right, do you hear me?
No. No.
Give me Novocaine.
She's an Extraordinary Girl.
She runs.
Where have all the martyrs gone?
Where is the underbelly?
Where are the holy scriptures of the shopping mall?
Covered up.
Just like everything else.
Underneath that paint is St. Jimmy's own scarlet.
St. Jimmy knows what to do.
Mr. Two Dollar Bill.
Give me Novocaine.
Wake Me Up When September Ends.
September arrives too soon in October.
Count by ides for me, will you?
Now he's dead to me.
He blew his brains out and I helped.
The ides arrived too soon, Mr. Two Dollar Bill.
Let the seagulls have him.
Am I the one stuck in the rain with the shallow dreams of hope?
Why are my hopes in the short end of the pool?
He was the light in the beginning.
My ticket out.
My way gone.
Now he's gone.
I couldn't be prouder.
She's gone.
No. No. No.
She's not allowed to be.
I just wanted to get my life together.
I had a job.
I had security.
I had a way to live.
I worked at East 12th Street and allowed you to live.
But I guess it wasn't rebellious enough.
She left with the words ringing in my head.
You've become what you've hated.
Nobody likes you.
Everyone hates you.
They're all out without you,
having fun.
No.
I need my coffee break.
After ten cups of coffee, you're still not here.
You're gone.
No.
I need you.
You opened your eyes and didn't like me.
I love you.
Where'd you go?
Thank you for that peace of inspiration Tully.
I don't know where to go.
I'm stuck between my home and my vacation home of freedom.
It would be more obvious but I can't think like that.
I am the son of rage and love.
The Jesus of Suburbia.
I'll always be a great memory.
Where'd you go?
Home.
We're coming home again.
I'm running until my lungs burst and crash in on themselves.
Until the saliva runs try and I choke on my own air.
I'm running until both the shoes and my soul have nothing.
I'm hitting the ground running.
I'm coming home.
---------------
You left.
I thought I saw you.
You were as clear as day.
Why?
Was it a dream?
A daydream?
Is it the Starbucks or the paint fumes?
I don't remember your name.
Your face I'll never forget.
I love Whatsername.
I love you.
=============
Yeah not really original in terms of idea but whatever.
Imaginary Perspective
The things I nitpick at are just not the same.
Are they really worth picking apart?
Should I really correct little things that bother me?
Is that I really really need to do?
If I correct it, will something else just become more noticeable?
Will correcting that period actually make it Shakespearean?
Or is it the big picture?
Is that Shakespearean piece really what's wrong with it?
No matter fixing the grammar if it's going to end up no better in the end.
Then again, maybe it makes all the difference.
Maybe one rose on the doorstep can solve anything.
Maybe one letter in your mailbox can help the situation.
Maybe one tiny fit of rage will make something more understandable.
It's hard to tell until someone actually goes through with those things.
I'm not the best person in the world. I know for a fact that there are way better people out there than me. I know that I'm not always the most moral.
But I know that I don't deserve this.
Are they really worth picking apart?
Should I really correct little things that bother me?
Is that I really really need to do?
If I correct it, will something else just become more noticeable?
Will correcting that period actually make it Shakespearean?
Or is it the big picture?
Is that Shakespearean piece really what's wrong with it?
No matter fixing the grammar if it's going to end up no better in the end.
Then again, maybe it makes all the difference.
Maybe one rose on the doorstep can solve anything.
Maybe one letter in your mailbox can help the situation.
Maybe one tiny fit of rage will make something more understandable.
It's hard to tell until someone actually goes through with those things.
I'm not the best person in the world. I know for a fact that there are way better people out there than me. I know that I'm not always the most moral.
But I know that I don't deserve this.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Ne 10
A blur of casinos and Toshiba's flash by me.
It's one of those movies where they leave a camera in the middle of a busy street and record all day and then play it back real fast.
I'm experiencing it first hand.
Everyone has someplace to be. Someplace to go.
It's unnatural to be standing still for only a second.
There are too many faces to recognize.
Am I lost?
If I was, I can't be found.
I'm the dead solider lying still in the angry cries of the billboard battleground.
Am I wounded or am I gone?
That's for the medic to decide.
It's one of those movies where they leave a camera in the middle of a busy street and record all day and then play it back real fast.
I'm experiencing it first hand.
Everyone has someplace to be. Someplace to go.
It's unnatural to be standing still for only a second.
There are too many faces to recognize.
Am I lost?
If I was, I can't be found.
I'm the dead solider lying still in the angry cries of the billboard battleground.
Am I wounded or am I gone?
That's for the medic to decide.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Here I am, back again.
Still lying in those same positions I laid in last week.
Still stroking her hair.
Still trying to move along.
I'm convinced she's never coming back.
Not the same girl, but now it's all the same.
They're still surprised when I stay until the next morning and hold onto them.
"Why haven't you left?"
"I wanted to be here when you woke up."
Sometimes they get scared. They wanted the night before to be time of their life and wake up to it being a dream. According to them, their innocence is saved from sleeping with guy they've known for an hour.
Sometimes they smile and hold me tighter. For the exact opposite reason.
They wanted it to be real.
Did it matter we were naked under covers like we've done it a million times before?
Probably not.
At least, not to me.
"If you want, you can stay like this a while."
It's that sentence that makes me happy inside.
There are the wild ones though. The ones that want it again in the morning.
Yeah, I'm a guy. I'll go again.
There's something about seeing strips of sunlight all over her body that makes me want to grasp her and never let go.
Her hair bounces up and down in rhythm to her sighs and gasps.
"Stop."
She stops bouncing on my cock.
"What? Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you? I hurt you didn't I?"
or
"Alright," then she goes down on me.
No no no.
"Just, sit there."
So she sits on me.
So we sit on her bed.
We sit there for an hour kissing and holding each other.
This is bliss.
If only they'd agree.
Still lying in those same positions I laid in last week.
Still stroking her hair.
Still trying to move along.
I'm convinced she's never coming back.
Not the same girl, but now it's all the same.
They're still surprised when I stay until the next morning and hold onto them.
"Why haven't you left?"
"I wanted to be here when you woke up."
Sometimes they get scared. They wanted the night before to be time of their life and wake up to it being a dream. According to them, their innocence is saved from sleeping with guy they've known for an hour.
Sometimes they smile and hold me tighter. For the exact opposite reason.
They wanted it to be real.
Did it matter we were naked under covers like we've done it a million times before?
Probably not.
At least, not to me.
"If you want, you can stay like this a while."
It's that sentence that makes me happy inside.
There are the wild ones though. The ones that want it again in the morning.
Yeah, I'm a guy. I'll go again.
There's something about seeing strips of sunlight all over her body that makes me want to grasp her and never let go.
Her hair bounces up and down in rhythm to her sighs and gasps.
"Stop."
She stops bouncing on my cock.
"What? Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you? I hurt you didn't I?"
or
"Alright," then she goes down on me.
No no no.
"Just, sit there."
So she sits on me.
So we sit on her bed.
We sit there for an hour kissing and holding each other.
This is bliss.
If only they'd agree.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Scrolling Through Titles
Man Shot Down Twice Today, Women Claim It's Him
What is a guy to do?
I'm here, I'm there.
I'm the one that people smirk at as I walk into the room. (13)
I'm the one that people glance at on the subway. (10)
I'm the one that doesn't know what's going on. (9)
I'm the one that stays up late finishing up articles. (10)
I'm the one that edits a sentence because the number of words are bothering me. (15)
I'm the one that finds a hidden poetry in an ordinary sentence.
Take the above five sentences, for example. A sort of symmetry that's good enough for me.
That's the kind of turn off I offer.
I'd make an excellent husband.
Chocolate World Causes Disaster for Others
Nothing lasts forever, but I'll try and make it last.
I don't believe in relationships that don't look like they could go anywhere.
That could be another problem for me.
I'm too busy looking for "the one".
Too busy looking for that perfect quality of paper to write on.
Too busy watching romantic comedies while talking on the phone with my friends while reading my company's newspaper.
Too busy correcting others mistakes.
Your hair is tilted.
Your attitude is messing with my atmosphere. [Doesn't sound right]
You don't treat me right.
Your article has a grammar problem.
Too busy checking for spelling mistakes to see anything else.
Too busy eating ice cream staring at the window to let the world pass me by.
Girl's Apology Letter Fails to Send, Man Blames Post Office for Breakup
"I'll send a letter to that girl asking her to be my own."
"Come ease the pain that's in my heart."
"Will I understand if she wants to be my friend?"
Though it doesn't matter.
"It's something unpredictable, though in the end it's right."
"I hope you had the time of your life."
Shit happens.
I can't say it wasn't meant to be because there's no such thing as fate.
Fate would mean you assume all the roads are already paved for you with other people's tax money and inspiration, you just have to walk on it.
Though some people drive on it.
In Lamborghinis.
Critic Gives Movie Two Thumbs Up! One's Depressed Look on Life entertains others!
In the end, you're the one that I want.
Though your path is made of dirt and mine of stone.
I seem to be stuck on mine.
Yours has no boundaries.
What is a guy to do?
I'm here, I'm there.
I'm the one that people smirk at as I walk into the room. (13)
I'm the one that people glance at on the subway. (10)
I'm the one that doesn't know what's going on. (9)
I'm the one that stays up late finishing up articles. (10)
I'm the one that edits a sentence because the number of words are bothering me. (15)
I'm the one that finds a hidden poetry in an ordinary sentence.
Take the above five sentences, for example. A sort of symmetry that's good enough for me.
That's the kind of turn off I offer.
I'd make an excellent husband.
Chocolate World Causes Disaster for Others
Nothing lasts forever, but I'll try and make it last.
I don't believe in relationships that don't look like they could go anywhere.
That could be another problem for me.
I'm too busy looking for "the one".
Too busy looking for that perfect quality of paper to write on.
Too busy watching romantic comedies while talking on the phone with my friends while reading my company's newspaper.
Too busy correcting others mistakes.
Your hair is tilted.
You don't treat me right.
Your article has a grammar problem.
Too busy checking for spelling mistakes to see anything else.
Too busy eating ice cream staring at the window to let the world pass me by.
Girl's Apology Letter Fails to Send, Man Blames Post Office for Breakup
"I'll send a letter to that girl asking her to be my own."
"Come ease the pain that's in my heart."
"Will I understand if she wants to be my friend?"
Though it doesn't matter.
"It's something unpredictable, though in the end it's right."
"I hope you had the time of your life."
Shit happens.
I can't say it wasn't meant to be because there's no such thing as fate.
Fate would mean you assume all the roads are already paved for you with other people's tax money and inspiration, you just have to walk on it.
Though some people drive on it.
In Lamborghinis.
Critic Gives Movie Two Thumbs Up! One's Depressed Look on Life entertains others!
In the end, you're the one that I want.
Though your path is made of dirt and mine of stone.
I seem to be stuck on mine.
Yours has no boundaries.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Only of You
Take me somewhere that I've always wanted to go.
Take me to a place that people don't worry about rocks in the relationship.
Take me underneath this crazy world of ours.
I'm sitting in Paris, I'm sitting in Rome, I'm sitting in a wedding in Beijing.
I'm laying in a hotel on the outskirts of town, I'm sleeping on beds I never knew existed, I'm dying on roofs of buildings that no one cares about.
In Paris, I'm sitting across from an empty white chair.
Tea for one?
The birds are chirping without care for the world. The stereotypical accordion music is playing from the inside of the restaurant. There's something about eating a small meal and having drinks on the stoned pathway outside. Not the convenience so much as the casualness. There are no coasters, no overlapping conversations, no passing waiters trying to get by the tightly arranged tables.
I'm so alone in this part of this world, yet part of something bigger. I don't know the language, but I know the people.
They're talking with each other in French or whatever language they happen to know.
Children are learning to count and the basics of getting by. Their biggest concern is trying to climb the steps.
I want to put my head down but I can't.
My watch is still off from timezones. I don't change it, I just account for the missed hours.
This is the best time for thinking. Being submerged in a strange new world makes the mind wander. Being far away makes the mind miss the comfort of home and love the new adventure.
I might stay here a while.
I need to see someone that hasn't cropped up in a while.
I need to find the picture of a long lost friend and see if his number still works.
I need to run into an old girlfriend and see how they've been doing.
Where did they go?
How did they get there?
What are they doing now?
What's the current 411?
So what happened to the 90s?
Did you change your number? Is it still the same like we promised each other?
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the package that came earlier for me.
It was a small box with a letter attached.
I didn't look at the address because mail fascinates me. Despite the current technology available, nothing beats the excitement of seeing the red flag of the mail box standing up. Getting a package was a sure orgasm.
Now I had in my hand a letter and a box.
Return address: Smudged to the point where a kindergarten teacher couldn't make out the details.
Stamp: Multiple images of hearts, flowers, and a copyright notice in very small print.
Before even reading anything else I knew who the letter was from. I didn't expect a letter to make it here. Only my boss and I knew I was here. Why did the a's have to look like fallen balloons and the g's like crop circles? I thought she would have lost interest in me by now.
I didn't expect her to forget, but I didn't expect it this soon.
I uncrossed my legs and let the needle feeling make it up my foot.
All the letter said was, "I got bored (:".
I opened the box and it was stuffed with newspaper. The funnies from the week before.
Even the public couldn't ignore my delight.
A hour of her life twisted into bits of string made up the bracelet buried among the packaging.
Too bad I didn't need it.
I raised my arm and my sleeve fell down to reveal the worn out purple, green, pink, and gray-that-was-once-white from a decade ago.
I left a ten dollar tip and walked down three blocks.
I need a marijuana leaf, an eyeball, and I think I'll buy a beret.
Take me to a place that people don't worry about rocks in the relationship.
Take me underneath this crazy world of ours.
I'm sitting in Paris, I'm sitting in Rome, I'm sitting in a wedding in Beijing.
I'm laying in a hotel on the outskirts of town, I'm sleeping on beds I never knew existed, I'm dying on roofs of buildings that no one cares about.
In Paris, I'm sitting across from an empty white chair.
Tea for one?
The birds are chirping without care for the world. The stereotypical accordion music is playing from the inside of the restaurant. There's something about eating a small meal and having drinks on the stoned pathway outside. Not the convenience so much as the casualness. There are no coasters, no overlapping conversations, no passing waiters trying to get by the tightly arranged tables.
I'm so alone in this part of this world, yet part of something bigger. I don't know the language, but I know the people.
They're talking with each other in French or whatever language they happen to know.
Children are learning to count and the basics of getting by. Their biggest concern is trying to climb the steps.
I want to put my head down but I can't.
My watch is still off from timezones. I don't change it, I just account for the missed hours.
This is the best time for thinking. Being submerged in a strange new world makes the mind wander. Being far away makes the mind miss the comfort of home and love the new adventure.
I might stay here a while.
I need to see someone that hasn't cropped up in a while.
I need to find the picture of a long lost friend and see if his number still works.
I need to run into an old girlfriend and see how they've been doing.
Where did they go?
How did they get there?
What are they doing now?
What's the current 411?
So what happened to the 90s?
Did you change your number? Is it still the same like we promised each other?
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the package that came earlier for me.
It was a small box with a letter attached.
I didn't look at the address because mail fascinates me. Despite the current technology available, nothing beats the excitement of seeing the red flag of the mail box standing up. Getting a package was a sure orgasm.
Now I had in my hand a letter and a box.
Return address: Smudged to the point where a kindergarten teacher couldn't make out the details.
Stamp: Multiple images of hearts, flowers, and a copyright notice in very small print.
Before even reading anything else I knew who the letter was from. I didn't expect a letter to make it here. Only my boss and I knew I was here. Why did the a's have to look like fallen balloons and the g's like crop circles? I thought she would have lost interest in me by now.
I didn't expect her to forget, but I didn't expect it this soon.
I uncrossed my legs and let the needle feeling make it up my foot.
All the letter said was, "I got bored (:".
I opened the box and it was stuffed with newspaper. The funnies from the week before.
Even the public couldn't ignore my delight.
A hour of her life twisted into bits of string made up the bracelet buried among the packaging.
Too bad I didn't need it.
I raised my arm and my sleeve fell down to reveal the worn out purple, green, pink, and gray-that-was-once-white from a decade ago.
I left a ten dollar tip and walked down three blocks.
I need a marijuana leaf, an eyeball, and I think I'll buy a beret.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Basement of my Cluttered Mind
And so he laid down on top of her.
The soft cushions pushed up on her, opening her.
He didn't hesitate.
She didn't hestate.
He wanted it.
She wanted it.
She wanted it now.
Harder.
Harder.
Stop.
Slow.
Build up.
Harder.
Harder.
End.
After all my fantasies, I'm still sitting in front of my laptop.
I'm still trying to finish the tamer projects I work on.
Next up: 3 Cocks, 3 Badasses, No Mercy.
What next?
I can always work with someone else material.
Free porn, free titles, free subtitles, free food.
Set for life?
After awhile, sex loses its meaning.
You no longer get aroused by watching a hot brunette get fucked so hard she's half moaning, half screaming.
I no longer have a type. Any type I did have was washed away by the pools of semen I left the guys on the set to clean up.
Free porn, free titles, free subtitles, free show.
Next up: Fox with Sox, All the things you can do.
I wish I could just have sex.
Now nothing's exciting.
Oh, she's naked and on my bed.
I should probably be aroused, since it's now my turn to fuck a girl.
Not really.
I consider myself a porn star, though no one would think so.
I can control my orgasms, I'm comfortable around other naked guys, I've seen enough naked people to last a life time, and I have a deep moan/painful groan.
How do I know that?
I practice when I'm alone.
Next up, Big Snakes on a Plane.
So where do I go from here?
Do I continue with this lifestyle?
Do I go on to something else?
I don't care either way as long as my girlfriend isn't my left and right.
The soft cushions pushed up on her, opening her.
He didn't hesitate.
She didn't hestate.
He wanted it.
She wanted it.
She wanted it now.
Harder.
Harder.
Stop.
Slow.
Build up.
Harder.
Harder.
End.
After all my fantasies, I'm still sitting in front of my laptop.
I'm still trying to finish the tamer projects I work on.
Next up: 3 Cocks, 3 Badasses, No Mercy.
What next?
I can always work with someone else material.
Free porn, free titles, free subtitles, free food.
Set for life?
After awhile, sex loses its meaning.
You no longer get aroused by watching a hot brunette get fucked so hard she's half moaning, half screaming.
I no longer have a type. Any type I did have was washed away by the pools of semen I left the guys on the set to clean up.
Free porn, free titles, free subtitles, free show.
Next up: Fox with Sox, All the things you can do.
I wish I could just have sex.
Now nothing's exciting.
Oh, she's naked and on my bed.
I should probably be aroused, since it's now my turn to fuck a girl.
Not really.
I consider myself a porn star, though no one would think so.
I can control my orgasms, I'm comfortable around other naked guys, I've seen enough naked people to last a life time, and I have a deep moan/painful groan.
How do I know that?
I practice when I'm alone.
Next up, Big Snakes on a Plane.
So where do I go from here?
Do I continue with this lifestyle?
Do I go on to something else?
I don't care either way as long as my girlfriend isn't my left and right.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Sharing Spaces
According to Dutch psychologists, 1 in 25 people hear voices.
I wish I could see them.
There's nothing more annoying than hearing your name called from behind you or the direction of the doorway only for nothing to be there.
At first, I was alright.
They were my friends.
Later, they began telling me things that weren't true.
She's cheating on you, Michael.
She's disrespecting you, Michael.
Come out from under the covers, Michael.
They were trying to get me pumped up.
I wanted to end it all. I couldn't take all this influence and pressure from nonexistent things. No teen aged boy should have to deal with peer pressure, let alone pressure from voices.
As a little boy, I was more curious about my invisible friends.
Where did they come from?
Why were they talking to me and no one else?
Who were these guys?
Now I just want them gone.
But you love us, Michael.
I don't want them back ever again.
You don't mean that, Michael.
They made me do things that no person could ever convince me to do.
I robbed a store.
I stole candy from a baby and then taunted it for the hell of it.
I cheated on tests I knew the answers to.
I slept on the cold floor because they wanted me to.
Because they wanted me to.
You wanted to, Michael. We just helped.
They used to comfort me.
Their soft, melodramatic voices were like white noise to me.
They could say one word and make me feel new again.
Michael...
They could induce self-esteem in me.
They could drown me in courage.
Now, all they did was take it away.
The Voices are with me every step of the way.
They taught me about life and death.
How to be the best I can be.
Why I should live.
They taught me my reason to be here.
Now I'm on my final words.
They are not my friends anymore.
It's to the point where I'm invisible to them.
That's not true, Michael.
In an argument, I take the strong points.
I lead the conversation.
No more dead dogs.
I'm in control.
Now, I'm lying here.
And there's nothing you can do about it.
You can't teach me not to die.
After one last glance at the ceiling fan, I gasped before laying down forever. I'm leaving, and I'm taking you guys with me.
Fuck you, Michael.
I wish I could see them.
There's nothing more annoying than hearing your name called from behind you or the direction of the doorway only for nothing to be there.
At first, I was alright.
They were my friends.
Later, they began telling me things that weren't true.
She's cheating on you, Michael.
She's disrespecting you, Michael.
Come out from under the covers, Michael.
They were trying to get me pumped up.
I wanted to end it all. I couldn't take all this influence and pressure from nonexistent things. No teen aged boy should have to deal with peer pressure, let alone pressure from voices.
As a little boy, I was more curious about my invisible friends.
Where did they come from?
Why were they talking to me and no one else?
Who were these guys?
Now I just want them gone.
But you love us, Michael.
I don't want them back ever again.
You don't mean that, Michael.
They made me do things that no person could ever convince me to do.
I robbed a store.
I stole candy from a baby and then taunted it for the hell of it.
I cheated on tests I knew the answers to.
I slept on the cold floor because they wanted me to.
Because they wanted me to.
You wanted to, Michael. We just helped.
They used to comfort me.
Their soft, melodramatic voices were like white noise to me.
They could say one word and make me feel new again.
Michael...
They could induce self-esteem in me.
They could drown me in courage.
Now, all they did was take it away.
The Voices are with me every step of the way.
They taught me about life and death.
How to be the best I can be.
Why I should live.
They taught me my reason to be here.
Now I'm on my final words.
They are not my friends anymore.
It's to the point where I'm invisible to them.
That's not true, Michael.
In an argument, I take the strong points.
I lead the conversation.
No more dead dogs.
I'm in control.
Now, I'm lying here.
And there's nothing you can do about it.
You can't teach me not to die.
After one last glance at the ceiling fan, I gasped before laying down forever. I'm leaving, and I'm taking you guys with me.
Fuck you, Michael.
Monday, November 3, 2008
November Snow Globe
My head is heavy from getting ready.
My throat burns from swallowing my coffee ten sips at a time.
I'm waiting for you.
The minutes tick by.
My leg quivers.
I'm still waiting.
I wonder if you'll ever show up at all. No, you'll be here.
I pass on the menu five times. Six if you count the mistaken waiter.
A pride of employees stand in the empty kitchen doorway. I occasionally catch glances of them.
Stop looking at me.
I check my watch again.
The empty seat across the way stares at me.
Its over inflated red marble plastic covering mocks their cheap choices.
The lights on the salad bar go out.
Maybe you got sick.
Maybe you woke up really late.
Maybe your body is messed up thanks to daylight savings time.
Maybe thanks to global warming a fire hydrant exploded and got you an accident.
Maybe you just didn't want to talk.
Did I sound too nervous on the phone?
Did I sound too quirky on the street?
Did I look too messy in the office?
Did I look too standard for fun?
The waiters start dealing out bills to everyone.
It's far too late.
It's closing time.
I order a last round of beer just to pump me up for the road.
I make a mental checklist.
Tissues?
Ice Cream?
Chick flick?
Yeah, I was set for tonight.
I guess I'll have to use those things for myself.
I get everything set to go.
I get up from the booth.
More and more bills get handed out in the corner.
I'm on the way out.
I bumped into the waiters, making them drop their load.
They scramble for loose ends.
The door opens and I knock shoulders with a small girl.
We apologized and continued.
I stopped and turned around.
It's you.
I smile.
My throat burns from swallowing my coffee ten sips at a time.
I'm waiting for you.
The minutes tick by.
My leg quivers.
I'm still waiting.
I wonder if you'll ever show up at all. No, you'll be here.
I pass on the menu five times. Six if you count the mistaken waiter.
A pride of employees stand in the empty kitchen doorway. I occasionally catch glances of them.
Stop looking at me.
I check my watch again.
The empty seat across the way stares at me.
Its over inflated red marble plastic covering mocks their cheap choices.
The lights on the salad bar go out.
Maybe you got sick.
Maybe you woke up really late.
Maybe your body is messed up thanks to daylight savings time.
Maybe thanks to global warming a fire hydrant exploded and got you an accident.
Maybe you just didn't want to talk.
Did I sound too nervous on the phone?
Did I sound too quirky on the street?
Did I look too messy in the office?
Did I look too standard for fun?
The waiters start dealing out bills to everyone.
It's far too late.
It's closing time.
I order a last round of beer just to pump me up for the road.
I make a mental checklist.
Tissues?
Ice Cream?
Chick flick?
Yeah, I was set for tonight.
I guess I'll have to use those things for myself.
I get everything set to go.
I get up from the booth.
More and more bills get handed out in the corner.
I'm on the way out.
I bumped into the waiters, making them drop their load.
They scramble for loose ends.
The door opens and I knock shoulders with a small girl.
We apologized and continued.
I stopped and turned around.
It's you.
I smile.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
FUCK MY LIFE
a true friend isn't selfish and does keep him home away from other friends
you can't force me to spend time with you.
i see you all the time.
i've grown up deal with it.
in fact, your lack of respect has made me hate you.
So fine.
Fuck you.
It's nice to know you're there.
But I don't care anymore for your sanity.
I hate to see a grown man cry.
Yet, I've done it a thousand times.
No. No. No. NO. NO NONONONONONO'
I HATE YOU
I DONT WANT YOU GONE
I JUST WANT YOU TO RAISE ME RIGHT
OH SORRY IF YOU HAVENT SEEN ME ALL WEEKEND
BUT I ACTUALLY HAVE THINGS TO DO.
I'm not going to let my "friend" determine exactly when I can do things.
So you shove your bullshit rules where the sun don't shine.
my "friendship" with you has cost me my others.
Derrick's disappointed.
Kayla's disappointed. she seems to be all the time in me. to the point of like "fuck you then."
so thanks a lot.
Thanks for the memories.
What goes around comes around.
So i'll probably have a shit life
but i'd rather have a shit life with the ones i love.
i hope you're one of them but don't take me over.
honestly, if i can't do it now,
how can i do it later?
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Scars
I couldn't care less about their shadows
I couldn't care less about how close their hands were.
I don't even notice even more.
"I'll fucking do it."
He held her neck with his arm and held a knife with his hand.
The windows from the 21st floor of the office building were still clean despite the current situation.
Why did he do this?
Why is he so numb to everything?
He was a nice kid.
Smart; kind of cute.
And he was about to slit his girlfriends throat.
Her golden gun colored hair was still perfect even with drops of blood being stained into it.
It almost gave her a bit of acceptance and grime.
I still couldn't understand why. or how.
How did this boy who was raised with right and wrong go so...so...
Dangerous?
Then I realized it doesn't matter if you know right or wrong. The only difference is that you know if you're doing right or wrong. It's all from your perspective.
My hands were cold from the rope tying them together behind my back.
I blinked and they were on him. One gunshot to the head from across the room.
Didn't even flinch.
I couldn't care less about how close their hands were.
I don't even notice even more.
"I'll fucking do it."
He held her neck with his arm and held a knife with his hand.
The windows from the 21st floor of the office building were still clean despite the current situation.
Why did he do this?
Why is he so numb to everything?
He was a nice kid.
Smart; kind of cute.
And he was about to slit his girlfriends throat.
Her golden gun colored hair was still perfect even with drops of blood being stained into it.
It almost gave her a bit of acceptance and grime.
I still couldn't understand why. or how.
How did this boy who was raised with right and wrong go so...so...
Dangerous?
Then I realized it doesn't matter if you know right or wrong. The only difference is that you know if you're doing right or wrong. It's all from your perspective.
My hands were cold from the rope tying them together behind my back.
I blinked and they were on him. One gunshot to the head from across the room.
Didn't even flinch.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Say Hello To Me
Strobe lights passed their bodies as they spun around and around.
Her wet hair whipped in the face as she twirled.
Street lights turned on as they stepped outside.
The broken bulbs flickered to the beat of their steps.
Puddles from the recent rain infected the streets and potholes roared with water running underneath.
Buildings were moist and sweaty as the headlights bounced off of them.
Rust formed and paint was peeling with every loose raindrop from the gutters above.
The steel emergency door closed behind them without a sound.
Party goers disabled the alarms for their quick exits.
She clung onto his arm even though they were trapped in his pockets.
Like instinct, he handed her his jacket as she shivered.
After many small laughs and staring sessions, he pressed her up again the wall using his jacket as her protection from the building's dew.
His forehead rested on hers.
"Let's go the car."
Her soft voice barely carried through out the alleyway, but he could still hear her.
As they left the alleyway, the moonlight brightened up their cold faces. Shadows cast to the lamppost and the distant coffee shop across the street.
Though it was dark, the night warmed them.
They fell asleep in the back of his car, staring out the sunroof at the endless stars that resembled endless people and endless possibilities.
Her wet hair whipped in the face as she twirled.
Street lights turned on as they stepped outside.
The broken bulbs flickered to the beat of their steps.
Puddles from the recent rain infected the streets and potholes roared with water running underneath.
Buildings were moist and sweaty as the headlights bounced off of them.
Rust formed and paint was peeling with every loose raindrop from the gutters above.
The steel emergency door closed behind them without a sound.
Party goers disabled the alarms for their quick exits.
She clung onto his arm even though they were trapped in his pockets.
Like instinct, he handed her his jacket as she shivered.
After many small laughs and staring sessions, he pressed her up again the wall using his jacket as her protection from the building's dew.
His forehead rested on hers.
"Let's go the car."
Her soft voice barely carried through out the alleyway, but he could still hear her.
As they left the alleyway, the moonlight brightened up their cold faces. Shadows cast to the lamppost and the distant coffee shop across the street.
Though it was dark, the night warmed them.
They fell asleep in the back of his car, staring out the sunroof at the endless stars that resembled endless people and endless possibilities.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Falling for Coattails
I'm standing on stilts that don't support me.
I'm wasting stamps that could have saved me.
I'm giving everything but only blown kisses return to me.
I watched as her platinum blond hair slipped away through my fingers.
Her fedora turned and she disappeared into the crowd with a wink.
Even as she turned, she still glowed with that glow that only make-up commercial models seem to have.
Even with this stingy subway lighting, she was an angel.
Her drifting long coat bounced off of the crowd's suitcases and low hanging purses and created waves better than the open ocean.
She looked like a detective with the way she was leading me on.
I could have kept going, but the doors closed on me and I was left standing on the platform.
Her deep hazel eyes locked on to mine as she drifted away with a thin smile like those of thieves.
I wanted to meet her, talk to her, listen to her story.
Maybe we'll meet again at a coffee shop or a newsstand. Maybe we'll strike up a conversation.
Some things are better left to the mind to fantasize about.
That's what makes the mystery.
I'm wasting stamps that could have saved me.
I'm giving everything but only blown kisses return to me.
I watched as her platinum blond hair slipped away through my fingers.
Her fedora turned and she disappeared into the crowd with a wink.
Even as she turned, she still glowed with that glow that only make-up commercial models seem to have.
Even with this stingy subway lighting, she was an angel.
Her drifting long coat bounced off of the crowd's suitcases and low hanging purses and created waves better than the open ocean.
She looked like a detective with the way she was leading me on.
I could have kept going, but the doors closed on me and I was left standing on the platform.
Her deep hazel eyes locked on to mine as she drifted away with a thin smile like those of thieves.
I wanted to meet her, talk to her, listen to her story.
Maybe we'll meet again at a coffee shop or a newsstand. Maybe we'll strike up a conversation.
Some things are better left to the mind to fantasize about.
That's what makes the mystery.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Staring at the screen.
Personalized to the point of robots.
Imaginary people tapping me on the shoulder.
Soft tunes. Playing.
Half slanted eye lids.
Good times well lost.
Time is a Lost and Found that will never rebound because someone keeps stealing the things that others cannot find. This makes it impossible to recover.
Better thank who you want. Everyone knows it might be too late.
Conversations with myself telling myself where to go with my life.
Is it too late for me?
The broken keys rebound with someone else keeps on the ground.
Don't let someone else shine in your spotlight. Don't give up the podium for your Grammy.
Be there because you want to be; not because you have to be.
Be careful where you get off. Too soon and you're stupid. Too late and you're stupid.
Bumping people isn't your problem.
Just keep floating forward.
Take a bus to nowhere as nowhere is where you belong.
Don't say that you can't do anything when you're listening to a motivational song.
Don't say that you aren't capable.
Stop pushing my breathe away from the base of your neck.
Just resting for a moment.
Continue on a road trip forever if you want. Go to Rhode Island, St. Louis, Oakland, CA. Drive in a beat down blue car. Take my battered soul if you want. I'll be here when you get back.
You are coming back right?
Join a pirate ship for fun. Don't waste time on a the newspaper in the morning.
Be the best you can be.
Let me hold you like a baby.
Let me hold please.
Let me rest on top of you only for a moment.
Let me hear your heartbeat when you think of me.
Let me listen to you.
Let me be wit you. Let me join what's going on.
Losing control of motor functions kills my hands.
I fell and skipped a song.
Imaginary people tapping me on the shoulder.
Soft tunes. Playing.
Half slanted eye lids.
Good times well lost.
Time is a Lost and Found that will never rebound because someone keeps stealing the things that others cannot find. This makes it impossible to recover.
Better thank who you want. Everyone knows it might be too late.
Conversations with myself telling myself where to go with my life.
Is it too late for me?
The broken keys rebound with someone else keeps on the ground.
Don't let someone else shine in your spotlight. Don't give up the podium for your Grammy.
Be there because you want to be; not because you have to be.
Be careful where you get off. Too soon and you're stupid. Too late and you're stupid.
Bumping people isn't your problem.
Just keep floating forward.
Take a bus to nowhere as nowhere is where you belong.
Don't say that you can't do anything when you're listening to a motivational song.
Don't say that you aren't capable.
Stop pushing my breathe away from the base of your neck.
Just resting for a moment.
Continue on a road trip forever if you want. Go to Rhode Island, St. Louis, Oakland, CA. Drive in a beat down blue car. Take my battered soul if you want. I'll be here when you get back.
You are coming back right?
Join a pirate ship for fun. Don't waste time on a the newspaper in the morning.
Be the best you can be.
Let me hold you like a baby.
Let me hold please.
Let me rest on top of you only for a moment.
Let me hear your heartbeat when you think of me.
Let me listen to you.
Let me be wit you. Let me join what's going on.
Losing control of motor functions kills my hands.
I fell and skipped a song.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
What Novel?
The woman cut closer and closer.
I could hear the blades file together every time. The sound of cutting paper grazed my follicles. I was worried about the outcome.
There was no traditional barber shop around my house, just around the corner.
There was no nice elderly man to greet you at the door.
Instead I got this girl with fingernails the color of my candy apple red guitar who snapped her gum like it was the 90's.
"So where do you go to school, hun?"
Her questions circled my ears and drifted in and out.
"Huh?"
"I said, where do you go to school?"
"Oh, um. Richardson High."
The hairdryer drifted in and out like the conversation.
"How do you like it there?"
I wondered why she asked these meaningless questions. I guessed she just wanted to start a conversation. Her faded red bandanna and curly blonde hair made me like her though.
"It's alright. The classes are boring, but then again, what classes aren't?"
Snip, snip, snip.
The cold blades stung for seconds at a time.
The manual lawnmower of my mind.
She laughed in that small inhale laugh that sounds like people choking on their on spit.
I glanced over at the brunette sitting behind the desk at the front. Her feet up on the desk and pointy glasses, she looked like another teen clone model.
She was also popping gum.
Every so often, she would flip a page in her fashion and gossip magazine and sniff at the perfume samples. Both her ears and mine were filled with the latest rap hit that was rattling through her headphones.
I hope she goes deaf.
The woman waiting on the plastic covered bench out front was talking on her phone. She was talking with her mouth open since it's law to do so while putting make up on.
After several minutes of struggling, she settled into a position that was most efficient.
She stared into the mirror with every intention of making it into perfection.
I hope she goes blind.
Further than that, they were arguing. She kept pointing the finger at him and he kept backing up and his eyes began to look more like shiny orbs than olives.
"I'm SORRY!" you could hear through the glass.
"NO NO NO! I HATE YOU. YOU DON'T SUPPORT ME."
"I DO."
You could tell he did.
I hope she can't feel anymore.
Snip, snip.
"You're almost done honey."
I hoped so.
I needed to go talk to someone.
The little bell on the door made a jingle.
The lady at the desk didn't flinch.
Her face was hidden in the doorway by the glare of the sun on the glass door.
My savior.
I could hear the blades file together every time. The sound of cutting paper grazed my follicles. I was worried about the outcome.
There was no traditional barber shop around my house, just around the corner.
There was no nice elderly man to greet you at the door.
Instead I got this girl with fingernails the color of my candy apple red guitar who snapped her gum like it was the 90's.
"So where do you go to school, hun?"
Her questions circled my ears and drifted in and out.
"Huh?"
"I said, where do you go to school?"
"Oh, um. Richardson High."
The hairdryer drifted in and out like the conversation.
"How do you like it there?"
I wondered why she asked these meaningless questions. I guessed she just wanted to start a conversation. Her faded red bandanna and curly blonde hair made me like her though.
"It's alright. The classes are boring, but then again, what classes aren't?"
Snip, snip, snip.
The cold blades stung for seconds at a time.
The manual lawnmower of my mind.
She laughed in that small inhale laugh that sounds like people choking on their on spit.
I glanced over at the brunette sitting behind the desk at the front. Her feet up on the desk and pointy glasses, she looked like another teen clone model.
She was also popping gum.
Every so often, she would flip a page in her fashion and gossip magazine and sniff at the perfume samples. Both her ears and mine were filled with the latest rap hit that was rattling through her headphones.
I hope she goes deaf.
The woman waiting on the plastic covered bench out front was talking on her phone. She was talking with her mouth open since it's law to do so while putting make up on.
After several minutes of struggling, she settled into a position that was most efficient.
She stared into the mirror with every intention of making it into perfection.
I hope she goes blind.
Further than that, they were arguing. She kept pointing the finger at him and he kept backing up and his eyes began to look more like shiny orbs than olives.
"I'm SORRY!" you could hear through the glass.
"NO NO NO! I HATE YOU. YOU DON'T SUPPORT ME."
"I DO."
You could tell he did.
I hope she can't feel anymore.
Snip, snip.
"You're almost done honey."
I hoped so.
I needed to go talk to someone.
The little bell on the door made a jingle.
The lady at the desk didn't flinch.
Her face was hidden in the doorway by the glare of the sun on the glass door.
My savior.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Four Leaf Clover
No matter how rare they are. How unique and beautiful they are.
They're all the same.
Sure I hate my life.
Sure I became a corporate sucker even though I told my friends I wouldn't
Sure I think I'm special, but I'm just one of the same.
I couldn't live my dreams.
The Specials spend their whole lives different, but not hated. They're sitting in a row of regulars waiting to be discovered.
Failed conspiracies started by a Four Leaf Clover.
Nature keeps things in line. Petals of five, even legs, odd clovers. The "lucky" ones are mutants of a "chaotic" government trying to keep things orderly.
After being discovered, they're cherished until another is found.
Some keep a jar of them. I dub thee Hollywood.
Some spend hours looking for one in a field.
They think they've found a beautiful, unique, special four leaf clover, only to find that it has the same shade as all the others.
I'm the trio of umbrellas for microorganisms.
I do not have opposable thumbs, only stubby fingers.
I do not have a memory, only a faulty tape recorder.
I do not have a heart, only dirty pipes.
Veins flow of chlorophyll with a photographic image.
Please don't try to develop it, it'll only come out black.
Don't look for anything special in my lucky penny.
I am the reason they're mad.
I am the three leaf clover in disguise.
I am the ocean wave the same as the last.
I am the cloud that looks like a train but made up of the same thing as others.
No personality.
A poser clover.
A poser clover tied down by nature.
A poser clover too afraid to grow more shade.
I should have known that I should be happy with what I have.
Who knows?
I might be liked.
They're all the same.
Sure I hate my life.
Sure I became a corporate sucker even though I told my friends I wouldn't
Sure I think I'm special, but I'm just one of the same.
I couldn't live my dreams.
The Specials spend their whole lives different, but not hated. They're sitting in a row of regulars waiting to be discovered.
Failed conspiracies started by a Four Leaf Clover.
Nature keeps things in line. Petals of five, even legs, odd clovers. The "lucky" ones are mutants of a "chaotic" government trying to keep things orderly.
After being discovered, they're cherished until another is found.
Some keep a jar of them. I dub thee Hollywood.
Some spend hours looking for one in a field.
They think they've found a beautiful, unique, special four leaf clover, only to find that it has the same shade as all the others.
I'm the trio of umbrellas for microorganisms.
I do not have opposable thumbs, only stubby fingers.
I do not have a memory, only a faulty tape recorder.
I do not have a heart, only dirty pipes.
Veins flow of chlorophyll with a photographic image.
Please don't try to develop it, it'll only come out black.
Don't look for anything special in my lucky penny.
I am the reason they're mad.
I am the three leaf clover in disguise.
I am the ocean wave the same as the last.
I am the cloud that looks like a train but made up of the same thing as others.
No personality.
A poser clover.
A poser clover tied down by nature.
A poser clover too afraid to grow more shade.
I should have known that I should be happy with what I have.
Who knows?
I might be liked.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Almost Broken Silent Promise
There's no urge to, but it's still there.
There's no feeling, but it's still there.
Why not?
Not because of a promise that's not really a promise?
Fuck, it's planned out.
The bags are packed and the plane shouldn't be delayed.
That's the chance to finally get something done on the right date.
Go ahead laugh. Laugh at the thoughts that got through.
Don't be silly.
Then again, it's not like anyone would know.
The doors are locked.
The windows are shut with the shudders closed.
Just curious.
No, no, no.
It's just something stupid that's all.
Nothing special.
It could be made special. Right?
It wouldn't be the same.
It would be wrong.
It would become a living lie.
Life's full of them, but somehow it goes on.
Is the decision final?
No?
Really?
Why?
Oh really.
That is a fact for sure.
Who is to blame?
Oh no, more urges?
Silent urges.
It's not right.
It's not left either.
Back away.
Go back to your life.
Forget about it.
Oh no, the thought keeps coming back up doesn't it?
Too many questions?
Yes or no?
No.
Alright.
There's no feeling, but it's still there.
Why not?
Not because of a promise that's not really a promise?
Fuck, it's planned out.
The bags are packed and the plane shouldn't be delayed.
That's the chance to finally get something done on the right date.
Go ahead laugh. Laugh at the thoughts that got through.
Don't be silly.
Then again, it's not like anyone would know.
The doors are locked.
The windows are shut with the shudders closed.
Just curious.
No, no, no.
It's just something stupid that's all.
Nothing special.
It could be made special. Right?
It wouldn't be the same.
It would be wrong.
It would become a living lie.
Life's full of them, but somehow it goes on.
Is the decision final?
No?
Really?
Why?
Oh really.
That is a fact for sure.
Who is to blame?
Oh no, more urges?
Silent urges.
It's not right.
It's not left either.
Back away.
Go back to your life.
Forget about it.
Oh no, the thought keeps coming back up doesn't it?
Too many questions?
Yes or no?
No.
Alright.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Punch Buggy, No Punch Backs!
It might be hard for some to imagine the most perfect thing charging at you with both fists in the air swinging madly with the sole purpose of inflicting pain on you.
Only before you're shot down in the coldest July, you feel no pain because you were running too.
You didn't stop because you thought that's what was supposed to happen.
What ends up happening is the most perfect thing ending up in your arms.
This happens several times.
Run.
Stop.
Hold.
Repeat.
After letting the little things get to my mind, I have to rely on the big things that I remember.
They may taint my mind with things that need to be forgotten in order to have new memories, but I keep them around, just in case nothing better comes along.
Which is most likely.
Sitting on a concrete porch is more comfortable than you'd think.
Especially with the wind at your back in the coldest July.
Especially when you were afraid of memories when you were little. Crying at Brainstew and a punk. Little children crying because they don't want to be forgotten.
Instead they've grown up together.
And they're fine.
They're still crying.
They still can't move on.
But they still charge, stop, and hold it.
Flash.
Fade to white and back to the real world.
The white was just an infinite florescent bulb.
Don't burn out.
Only before you're shot down in the coldest July, you feel no pain because you were running too.
You didn't stop because you thought that's what was supposed to happen.
What ends up happening is the most perfect thing ending up in your arms.
This happens several times.
Run.
Stop.
Hold.
Repeat.
After letting the little things get to my mind, I have to rely on the big things that I remember.
They may taint my mind with things that need to be forgotten in order to have new memories, but I keep them around, just in case nothing better comes along.
Which is most likely.
Sitting on a concrete porch is more comfortable than you'd think.
Especially with the wind at your back in the coldest July.
Especially when you were afraid of memories when you were little. Crying at Brainstew and a punk. Little children crying because they don't want to be forgotten.
Instead they've grown up together.
And they're fine.
They're still crying.
They still can't move on.
But they still charge, stop, and hold it.
Flash.
Fade to white and back to the real world.
The white was just an infinite florescent bulb.
Don't burn out.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
2,000 Lightyears Away
It's amazing how I stay in shape without someone to chase.
I sit all day and yet I'm a rail.
I communicate across the world from the couch in my living room.
I was supposed to share this living room.
And this apartment.
But they bailed and never came back.
They found it happier elsewhere.
I wish I could do that.
But I'm only happy together, and they're whatever about it.
The shadows are constant now. There is no let down.
I feel like this all the time.
They don't bother to go away.
There are shadows at night in complete darkness.
They're in my bedroom.
The one I was supposed to share.
They penetrate my dreams.
All I dream of is hate and fear and anger and I kill myself only to wake up before the conclusion.
I can't handle it anymore.
One day I won't care or try anymore.
And I'll do it for real.
Maybe I'll wake up again.
Maybe they'll wake up.
I'm replaceable.
At my job, there's just another spot available in the cubicle maze.
At my house, there's just left over furniture with plastic covering.
In my life, there's just another lost soul that "needed guiding to get on the right path."
Ha Ha, I'm dead.
What now?
I play with myself and hold my fingers like a gun and see how long it would take before I'd pull the trigger.
If I think too long, I can't do it.
If I think too short, I can't do it.
I just have to feel the moment.
The TV suicides you can predict. There's a climax period where you have to pull it now or never.
Nothing could be worse than a failed suicide.
By then I'm so pathetic I can't kill myself.
So I get cheap highs from anonymous sex.
Oh joy. Orgasm.
But they don't care what I'm doing half way around the world.
She's having the time of her life with a man she loves.
He's having the time of his life with a girl he loves.
I'm having the time of my life deciding how it should end.
I want to say "Fuck you America. Fuck you world. I don't care about this anymore. I can do anything I want. I can ride a bike with no handlebars."
Of course, I'll come crashing back to Earth and be stuck with my Starbucks brownie.
Grasping onto Kennywood maps that say "Make a new memory!".
Way to put emotion into it.
They resent me.
I can't blame them.
I sit all day and yet I'm a rail.
I communicate across the world from the couch in my living room.
I was supposed to share this living room.
And this apartment.
But they bailed and never came back.
They found it happier elsewhere.
I wish I could do that.
But I'm only happy together, and they're whatever about it.
The shadows are constant now. There is no let down.
I feel like this all the time.
They don't bother to go away.
There are shadows at night in complete darkness.
They're in my bedroom.
The one I was supposed to share.
They penetrate my dreams.
All I dream of is hate and fear and anger and I kill myself only to wake up before the conclusion.
I can't handle it anymore.
One day I won't care or try anymore.
And I'll do it for real.
Maybe I'll wake up again.
Maybe they'll wake up.
I'm replaceable.
At my job, there's just another spot available in the cubicle maze.
At my house, there's just left over furniture with plastic covering.
In my life, there's just another lost soul that "needed guiding to get on the right path."
Ha Ha, I'm dead.
What now?
I play with myself and hold my fingers like a gun and see how long it would take before I'd pull the trigger.
If I think too long, I can't do it.
If I think too short, I can't do it.
I just have to feel the moment.
The TV suicides you can predict. There's a climax period where you have to pull it now or never.
Nothing could be worse than a failed suicide.
By then I'm so pathetic I can't kill myself.
So I get cheap highs from anonymous sex.
Oh joy. Orgasm.
But they don't care what I'm doing half way around the world.
She's having the time of her life with a man she loves.
He's having the time of his life with a girl he loves.
I'm having the time of my life deciding how it should end.
I want to say "Fuck you America. Fuck you world. I don't care about this anymore. I can do anything I want. I can ride a bike with no handlebars."
Of course, I'll come crashing back to Earth and be stuck with my Starbucks brownie.
Grasping onto Kennywood maps that say "Make a new memory!".
Way to put emotion into it.
They resent me.
I can't blame them.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Symmetry
Every beginning has its end.
No great story ever goes on forever.
No epic tale can be written in separate lives without sounding completely different.
Our ideas our different but the concept is the same.
"The Environment and You!"
A classic deadline-is-coming-soon-shit-make-up-something theme.
Stuck within my condensed enlarged cardboard box, I search for something to watch.
"Henderson, I need those portfolios done by 5."
I don't even know what the fuck my boss is talking about.
I settle on a live performance video I found on the internet.
Better work on those portfolios. Eventually, Soon, Maybe Later.
Staring at the same guitar strokes over and over brings out the thoughts you want to suppress.
It doesn't matter who people see you with during the day.
It only matters who ends up with you at the end of the day.
It only matters who touches you for the right reasons.
But those reasons go unnoticed.
After sleeping with girls with no names for about six months, it doesn't matter whether you touch them because you think they're beautiful or you just love their skin or if you want to use your fingers to work them up. Either way, they don't care what the fuck you think. You're an item from 12 am-8pm.
You could be a softy at work and be the one who tells the sports news, stock quotes, and stupid jokes at the water cooler. The one who picks up flowers for the lonely receptionist on the way out. The one who holds the elevator open for the custodian with his hands full.
You're still fucking phantom women at the end of the day.
That makes you someone completely different.
That's what people see you as.
Seeing Billie Joe back down from the microphone exhausted from a night's worth of playing reminds me of the fact that even though we may seem like Gods in the beginning, we're mortal in the end.
In the end, we're mortal.
So what's the point of stopping those urges?
The urges that make someone want to do something, but they stop themselves.
The urges I get that make me want to pull a fire alarm every time I pass one.
The urges I get that make me want to keep on walking past my car on the garage roof and straight off the wall.
The urges that make me want to punch things that should never be punched.
"This song is not anti-American, it's anti-war!"
The urges that make me yell things that come to mind in the middle of my office.
The urges that make me want to print anal porn on the public printer and see who walks by.
The urges I get that make want to unzip and scan my penis on the copier to see what it looks like actual size.
Those urges.
Why do we resist those urges?
Because it's not right.
Our superiors believe in restraint.
The restraint that makes us do what we don't want, but what's for the best.
The same characters pop up and you can't stop them from coming back.
The mailman with the ripped right pant leg.
The garage band with the spectrum hair and rainbow belts screaming insane lyrics.
The co-worker with bad breathe that you don't want to break the truth to.
The receptionist who never has a date because she lost faith in herself and men.
The characters you want to talk to but afraid it will mess up the balance.
Buy the mailmen new pants.
Go watch the garage band and give a few pointers.
Don't break the truth, instead offer a mint.
Don't fuck the receptionist, just hold her in a time of need and tell her the world is not her fault.
Nothing's her fault.
You don't have to force a smile when she tells you that you have a call on line 4 from this girl with an Australian accent and then smiles at you gently.
All my thoughts and memories get wrapped up because I can't act upon them.
It's not me.
I'm stuck at my desk job, but I don't want to do anything.
I'd rather watch a concert on the internet than go see on because of the money, the drive, the trouble of getting there.
I forget about the experience.
In the end, experience it what makes us.
The beginning is empty.
The end is empty.
We're the same on both sides.
No great story ever goes on forever.
No epic tale can be written in separate lives without sounding completely different.
Our ideas our different but the concept is the same.
"The Environment and You!"
A classic deadline-is-coming-soon-shit-make-up-something theme.
Stuck within my condensed enlarged cardboard box, I search for something to watch.
"Henderson, I need those portfolios done by 5."
I don't even know what the fuck my boss is talking about.
I settle on a live performance video I found on the internet.
Better work on those portfolios. Eventually, Soon, Maybe Later.
Staring at the same guitar strokes over and over brings out the thoughts you want to suppress.
It doesn't matter who people see you with during the day.
It only matters who ends up with you at the end of the day.
It only matters who touches you for the right reasons.
But those reasons go unnoticed.
After sleeping with girls with no names for about six months, it doesn't matter whether you touch them because you think they're beautiful or you just love their skin or if you want to use your fingers to work them up. Either way, they don't care what the fuck you think. You're an item from 12 am-8pm.
You could be a softy at work and be the one who tells the sports news, stock quotes, and stupid jokes at the water cooler. The one who picks up flowers for the lonely receptionist on the way out. The one who holds the elevator open for the custodian with his hands full.
You're still fucking phantom women at the end of the day.
That makes you someone completely different.
That's what people see you as.
Seeing Billie Joe back down from the microphone exhausted from a night's worth of playing reminds me of the fact that even though we may seem like Gods in the beginning, we're mortal in the end.
In the end, we're mortal.
So what's the point of stopping those urges?
The urges that make someone want to do something, but they stop themselves.
The urges I get that make me want to pull a fire alarm every time I pass one.
The urges I get that make me want to keep on walking past my car on the garage roof and straight off the wall.
The urges that make me want to punch things that should never be punched.
"This song is not anti-American, it's anti-war!"
The urges that make me yell things that come to mind in the middle of my office.
The urges that make me want to print anal porn on the public printer and see who walks by.
The urges I get that make want to unzip and scan my penis on the copier to see what it looks like actual size.
Those urges.
Why do we resist those urges?
Because it's not right.
Our superiors believe in restraint.
The restraint that makes us do what we don't want, but what's for the best.
The same characters pop up and you can't stop them from coming back.
The mailman with the ripped right pant leg.
The garage band with the spectrum hair and rainbow belts screaming insane lyrics.
The co-worker with bad breathe that you don't want to break the truth to.
The receptionist who never has a date because she lost faith in herself and men.
The characters you want to talk to but afraid it will mess up the balance.
Buy the mailmen new pants.
Go watch the garage band and give a few pointers.
Don't break the truth, instead offer a mint.
Don't fuck the receptionist, just hold her in a time of need and tell her the world is not her fault.
Nothing's her fault.
You don't have to force a smile when she tells you that you have a call on line 4 from this girl with an Australian accent and then smiles at you gently.
All my thoughts and memories get wrapped up because I can't act upon them.
It's not me.
I'm stuck at my desk job, but I don't want to do anything.
I'd rather watch a concert on the internet than go see on because of the money, the drive, the trouble of getting there.
I forget about the experience.
In the end, experience it what makes us.
The beginning is empty.
The end is empty.
We're the same on both sides.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Clocks on the Wall
I told them to stop smiling at me.
I told them to stop being so fucking organized.
But no.
They have to keep going.
A little hope in between ticks.
A little hope that it wasn't it's face, but the idea.
Where am I?
12:59 - I'm at work.
1:00 - I'm at work.
1:01 - There's no point in arguing.
1:02 - Stapler to the wrist?
1:03 - Paperclip to the eyelid?
Ending words and thoughts with periods.
Ending lines with semicolons.
Logical function flashing by.
IF ( $You_Dont_Care ) {
$Dont_Pretend;
}
One night stands bother me now.
I can't look them in the eye without thoughts of cheap imitation.
Chinese knock-offs.
American knock-up.
My opinion of them doesn't matter.
It's only for a night.
7200 seconds.
They could hate me but it doesn't matter.
I'll be gone by tomorrow.
I could not care about dressing for the next day, and coming in prepared, but I do.
Ever since the phone calls.
The staying up late.
It's better than any fake love I've endured.
Bright white light.
"Ello, mate!"
Mental Orgasm.
I have to melt, it's only natural.
Coming back from the end of the tunnel, I'm left with fate and a surfer man with brown spiky hair.
If I say it enough, I'll be right.
I don't want to be, but I will be.
Because the mind forgets.
I don't remember what I ate this morning.
I don't remember what I did last night.
I don't remember the minutes, the hours.
I remember when there's an idea with fishing line.
She's the fish.
1:04 - Hope
1:05 - Hope until I'm sick
1:06 - Dream for tomorrow
1:07 - Dream for tonight
1:08 - Run away for real this time.
Please?
I told them to stop being so fucking organized.
But no.
They have to keep going.
A little hope in between ticks.
A little hope that it wasn't it's face, but the idea.
Where am I?
12:59 - I'm at work.
1:00 - I'm at work.
1:01 - There's no point in arguing.
1:02 - Stapler to the wrist?
1:03 - Paperclip to the eyelid?
Ending words and thoughts with periods.
Ending lines with semicolons.
Logical function flashing by.
IF ( $You_Dont_Care ) {
$Dont_Pretend;
}
One night stands bother me now.
I can't look them in the eye without thoughts of cheap imitation.
Chinese knock-offs.
American knock-up.
My opinion of them doesn't matter.
It's only for a night.
7200 seconds.
They could hate me but it doesn't matter.
I'll be gone by tomorrow.
I could not care about dressing for the next day, and coming in prepared, but I do.
Ever since the phone calls.
The staying up late.
It's better than any fake love I've endured.
Bright white light.
"Ello, mate!"
Mental Orgasm.
I have to melt, it's only natural.
Coming back from the end of the tunnel, I'm left with fate and a surfer man with brown spiky hair.
If I say it enough, I'll be right.
I don't want to be, but I will be.
Because the mind forgets.
I don't remember what I ate this morning.
I don't remember what I did last night.
I don't remember the minutes, the hours.
I remember when there's an idea with fishing line.
She's the fish.
1:04 - Hope
1:05 - Hope until I'm sick
1:06 - Dream for tomorrow
1:07 - Dream for tonight
1:08 - Run away for real this time.
Please?
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Routines II
No one knew me.
Life became still and boring.
Life finally became chain mail.
Routines are circles.
Circles multiply and repeat.
They grow together into a giant circle chain mail.
That piece of armor needs to be put to an abrupt end.
Some people end their little linked knitted before it's over.
You're left with half a heart, half a circle, half a crazy design your grandmother came up with.
It'll never be finished.
It just means you did your routines half assed.
You can become depressed at your circles.
You can tell everyone what you think of them.
Just so you ask them, "How does that make you feel?".
You end up like the therapist talking to the little girl with the dead puppy or the dead goldfish but it doesn't matter because she'll get over it.
She'll get over Buddy or Dot, or whatever creative name she named him and move on to live life, create life, give life, raise life, and become another routine. Her routines will build up and she'll have her own piece of armor to hide behind.
I can feel my imaginary gun pressing against my temple.
I switch hands with it. Back and forth between sweaty hands.
The gun becomes wet in my hand and starts slipping.
Computer circles are the best.
They're not really circles. They're little blocks of pixels built up to build the illusion of an actual circle. Those little blocks become cubicles. Each cubicle has it's own life, it's own routine. It's own little Corporate America. Living in a world where a song like Mad World can be used in Microsoft commercials.
How can I pull the trigger with the best blood spatter?
How can I aim it so it'll look cool?
Will the CSI walk in and say, "Damn that must of hurt."?
"Why would he do this?"
"What a waste of life?"
"He could have worked at it."
If I go, will anyone miss me?
I can be replaced with another routine.
Someone else will take my place.
Take my job.
Take my life.
I'll become a Jane Doe. Or a John Doe.
It doesn't matter after death.
You end up in the ground either way.
All that's left is a stone tablet with your name etched it.
Here Lies a Dear Husband or Wife, Child or Father. Grandparent or Mother.
Roses sit but blow away.
Dirt washes everything away better than water.
The Wind carries the dirt that makes up the Earth.
The Earth. Another circle. Another routine.
Actually it's more oval shaped. Like the planets orbits, but that's beside the point.
Call it the Circle of Life. I call it a Routine of Eventual Death.
Life became still and boring.
Life finally became chain mail.
Routines are circles.
Circles multiply and repeat.
They grow together into a giant circle chain mail.
That piece of armor needs to be put to an abrupt end.
Some people end their little linked knitted before it's over.
You're left with half a heart, half a circle, half a crazy design your grandmother came up with.
It'll never be finished.
It just means you did your routines half assed.
You can become depressed at your circles.
You can tell everyone what you think of them.
Just so you ask them, "How does that make you feel?".
You end up like the therapist talking to the little girl with the dead puppy or the dead goldfish but it doesn't matter because she'll get over it.
She'll get over Buddy or Dot, or whatever creative name she named him and move on to live life, create life, give life, raise life, and become another routine. Her routines will build up and she'll have her own piece of armor to hide behind.
I can feel my imaginary gun pressing against my temple.
I switch hands with it. Back and forth between sweaty hands.
The gun becomes wet in my hand and starts slipping.
Computer circles are the best.
They're not really circles. They're little blocks of pixels built up to build the illusion of an actual circle. Those little blocks become cubicles. Each cubicle has it's own life, it's own routine. It's own little Corporate America. Living in a world where a song like Mad World can be used in Microsoft commercials.
How can I pull the trigger with the best blood spatter?
How can I aim it so it'll look cool?
Will the CSI walk in and say, "Damn that must of hurt."?
"Why would he do this?"
"What a waste of life?"
"He could have worked at it."
If I go, will anyone miss me?
I can be replaced with another routine.
Someone else will take my place.
Take my job.
Take my life.
I'll become a Jane Doe. Or a John Doe.
It doesn't matter after death.
You end up in the ground either way.
All that's left is a stone tablet with your name etched it.
Here Lies a Dear Husband or Wife, Child or Father. Grandparent or Mother.
Roses sit but blow away.
Dirt washes everything away better than water.
The Wind carries the dirt that makes up the Earth.
The Earth. Another circle. Another routine.
Actually it's more oval shaped. Like the planets orbits, but that's beside the point.
Call it the Circle of Life. I call it a Routine of Eventual Death.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
La Guitarra
I picked my first music instrument at the age of 5.
I barely remember it, I just remember my parents' stories.
It was a keyboard I used to play. I'd just bang on the keys, but after while I was playing "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" among other classic hits.
From there I moved on to guitar.
I didn't try to learn guitar because all the "cool" kids were doing it or because it was an easy way to get laid.
There are easier ways to get laid. Like ecstasy and alcohol.
No, I did it because I've always wanted to master something other than my own domain.
Then comes around high school. I was starting to get really good. Getting into bands and playing my favorite songs was my dream.
I became obsessed.
I became obsessed with my talent.
I loved my child.
I loved my Gibson.
My teachers began to say that I had gotten too involved. That it would ruin my life to obsess over something as stupid as that. They said my education was more important.
Everyone but my Spanish teacher.
He actually encouraged me.
He taught me things that I never thought would be possible for me in this lifetime, even with practice.
All through college I kept learning from him.
Finally I went out into the real world.
I thought I was set. I learned everything I needed to know. I was going places. I was going to meet people and be somebody.
Now I'm at a desk job. I'm a lost soul drowned by millions of letters and symbols that run a mailing system for our company.
I lost my talent to society.
I can still try, but it's not the same.
Guitar is still an easy way to get laid.
I barely remember it, I just remember my parents' stories.
It was a keyboard I used to play. I'd just bang on the keys, but after while I was playing "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" among other classic hits.
From there I moved on to guitar.
I didn't try to learn guitar because all the "cool" kids were doing it or because it was an easy way to get laid.
There are easier ways to get laid. Like ecstasy and alcohol.
No, I did it because I've always wanted to master something other than my own domain.
Then comes around high school. I was starting to get really good. Getting into bands and playing my favorite songs was my dream.
I became obsessed.
I became obsessed with my talent.
I loved my child.
I loved my Gibson.
My teachers began to say that I had gotten too involved. That it would ruin my life to obsess over something as stupid as that. They said my education was more important.
Everyone but my Spanish teacher.
He actually encouraged me.
He taught me things that I never thought would be possible for me in this lifetime, even with practice.
All through college I kept learning from him.
Finally I went out into the real world.
I thought I was set. I learned everything I needed to know. I was going places. I was going to meet people and be somebody.
Now I'm at a desk job. I'm a lost soul drowned by millions of letters and symbols that run a mailing system for our company.
I lost my talent to society.
I can still try, but it's not the same.
Guitar is still an easy way to get laid.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Routines
Get up.
Take a shower.
Get dressed.
Eat a quick breakfast.
Prepare all the things for the office.
Tell the girl in my bed to lock the door on the way out.
I'm too damn trusting.
The drive to work is a long and thoughtful one.
My mind wanders between suicide and the girl I love.
Sometimes the two mix.
During those times, I drive faster.
During those times, I stop off at Starbucks for a disgusting brownie as a memory.
I throw it up later because I'm sick of missing her.
My boss asks me what's wrong. I tell him that it's the usual. He doesn't know what the usual is, but he understands not to bother me.
I thought my career would be better than this. I never thought that I'd be stuck between cardboard walls staring at a computer screen for hours on end.
Everyday I'd go home missing her more and more.
Every Friday, I'd bring home a girl and fuck her until I couldn't take it anymore.
Until my mind became empty of any thought at all. The only thing I concentrated on was the moans from the girl under me. There was no substitute.
There could be no replacement.
It's almost pathetic that I couldn't move on. That I have to suppress my feelings because they're not the same.
I woke up.
Took a shower.
Got dressed.
Ate a slow, big breakfast.
Took extra care in preparation.
Told the woman in my bed to take as long as she wants before leaving the house.
The drive to work was a simple one.
It went from things I had to do to things I might have forgotten.
Sometimes the two mix.
During those times, I think harder.
The boss said "Good morning" as he passed me today. He peeked in and gave me a smile and a list of things that needed to be done.
I told him I already did it.
"Good work."
I went home.
The door was locked and there was no trace of someone else in the house.
The phone rang.
That was different, since no one called my house.
I picked up the phone hesitantly, thinking of the terrible sales pitches coming my way.
"Hello?"
"Hello?"
"Hai!"
I dropped the phone.
All the feelings I tucked away earlier had flooded back. I didn't forget about her. I could never forget about her. I loved her too much.
"How have you been?!"
I was speechless. I almost cried right there and then.
Take a shower.
Get dressed.
Eat a quick breakfast.
Prepare all the things for the office.
Tell the girl in my bed to lock the door on the way out.
I'm too damn trusting.
The drive to work is a long and thoughtful one.
My mind wanders between suicide and the girl I love.
Sometimes the two mix.
During those times, I drive faster.
During those times, I stop off at Starbucks for a disgusting brownie as a memory.
I throw it up later because I'm sick of missing her.
My boss asks me what's wrong. I tell him that it's the usual. He doesn't know what the usual is, but he understands not to bother me.
I thought my career would be better than this. I never thought that I'd be stuck between cardboard walls staring at a computer screen for hours on end.
Everyday I'd go home missing her more and more.
Every Friday, I'd bring home a girl and fuck her until I couldn't take it anymore.
Until my mind became empty of any thought at all. The only thing I concentrated on was the moans from the girl under me. There was no substitute.
There could be no replacement.
It's almost pathetic that I couldn't move on. That I have to suppress my feelings because they're not the same.
I woke up.
Took a shower.
Got dressed.
Ate a slow, big breakfast.
Took extra care in preparation.
Told the woman in my bed to take as long as she wants before leaving the house.
The drive to work was a simple one.
It went from things I had to do to things I might have forgotten.
Sometimes the two mix.
During those times, I think harder.
The boss said "Good morning" as he passed me today. He peeked in and gave me a smile and a list of things that needed to be done.
I told him I already did it.
"Good work."
I went home.
The door was locked and there was no trace of someone else in the house.
The phone rang.
That was different, since no one called my house.
I picked up the phone hesitantly, thinking of the terrible sales pitches coming my way.
"Hello?"
"Hello?"
"Hai!"
I dropped the phone.
All the feelings I tucked away earlier had flooded back. I didn't forget about her. I could never forget about her. I loved her too much.
"How have you been?!"
I was speechless. I almost cried right there and then.
Friday, September 5, 2008
I had laid there for hours just staring at her.
The most perfect thing on Earth.
Hard to believe I was fucking an angel just 4 hours before.
She was sleeping on her arm with the blankets pulled up to just above her hips, facing away from me. That was alright though, since it seems that all I wanted to do was watch her breathe.
I woke up before her and just started touching her, but not so much to alarm.
My hand went from her smooth, what seemed like strong, arms to her hips to her legs.
There's something about legs that keeps every man going. Some like them because of what they hide. Some like them because it gives them something to hold on to doggy style. I'm part of the male population that likes them because of how they feel. So smooth yet it has texture. I literally spent half an hour just massaging her legs, forgetting about the treasured thing that laid only a few inches above my fingers.
She flipped over and opened her eyes.
"Good morning," she said with a smile.
"Good morning," I said back.
I would have forgotten her name if it wasn't for the fact that a girl with the same name claimed I stalked her for the majority of my middle school years.
"I expected you to be gone by now."
That seemed to always be the case with me. A night of pleasure, gone forever.
"I wanted for you to be awake before I left."
Maybe the fact that I would have disappeared before she woke would have made it more like a fantasy than reality. This made me a dream with a penis.
We just stared at each other for a few seconds.
Her eyes were a dark brown, inviting you to dive in and ask her out.
Her hair was a golden brown. You could tell she didn't always have it this way. It was in a pony tail, which kind of made sense considering what we did last night. Not that I remember.
Her lips were slightly perky. In the cute kindergarten way. There was some dried spit on the side of her mouth from drooling. Or it could have been semen. I didn't want to ask.
She turned around again and asked me to hold her. So I did.
This opened a floodgate of memories from my high school years.
Mostly ones with me holding my ex and cuddling for hours. Holding hands.
But that's over now. Now I'm living the moment with a girl I hardly even know.
It's alright though, this might lead to something.
Although I don't remember the last time I heard that a gag-ball and used condoms on the ceiling led to something.
"Used condoms?"
The most perfect thing on Earth.
Hard to believe I was fucking an angel just 4 hours before.
She was sleeping on her arm with the blankets pulled up to just above her hips, facing away from me. That was alright though, since it seems that all I wanted to do was watch her breathe.
I woke up before her and just started touching her, but not so much to alarm.
My hand went from her smooth, what seemed like strong, arms to her hips to her legs.
There's something about legs that keeps every man going. Some like them because of what they hide. Some like them because it gives them something to hold on to doggy style. I'm part of the male population that likes them because of how they feel. So smooth yet it has texture. I literally spent half an hour just massaging her legs, forgetting about the treasured thing that laid only a few inches above my fingers.
She flipped over and opened her eyes.
"Good morning," she said with a smile.
"Good morning," I said back.
I would have forgotten her name if it wasn't for the fact that a girl with the same name claimed I stalked her for the majority of my middle school years.
"I expected you to be gone by now."
That seemed to always be the case with me. A night of pleasure, gone forever.
"I wanted for you to be awake before I left."
Maybe the fact that I would have disappeared before she woke would have made it more like a fantasy than reality. This made me a dream with a penis.
We just stared at each other for a few seconds.
Her eyes were a dark brown, inviting you to dive in and ask her out.
Her hair was a golden brown. You could tell she didn't always have it this way. It was in a pony tail, which kind of made sense considering what we did last night. Not that I remember.
Her lips were slightly perky. In the cute kindergarten way. There was some dried spit on the side of her mouth from drooling. Or it could have been semen. I didn't want to ask.
She turned around again and asked me to hold her. So I did.
This opened a floodgate of memories from my high school years.
Mostly ones with me holding my ex and cuddling for hours. Holding hands.
But that's over now. Now I'm living the moment with a girl I hardly even know.
It's alright though, this might lead to something.
Although I don't remember the last time I heard that a gag-ball and used condoms on the ceiling led to something.
"Used condoms?"
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Untitled One
Every morning starts the same.
I hit the snooze on my cell phone alarm clock.
I've had to change the ringer every other week. My body adjusts to it and I become immune to the waking ability.
The soap suds scurry past as I look straight down at my feet under the running water. Shampoo gets in my eyes and it stings, but I wipe it off with a towel. It happens more than once and before I know it I'm wiping shampoo into my eyes. I flip the towel over. It could be easier just to finish up.
I'm too tired to get out because I know it'll be cold as hell on the other side of the plastic curtain. I end up staring into a fogged-up mirror hoping to see something better on the other side but to no avail.
I eventually give in and turn off the faucets. Standing still probably isn't the best idea at this temperature and time of day.
Everyday I run through that same basic shower routine. Everyday I promise myself that tomorrow I won't be cold, I won't shiver, I'll get out and get ready. I'll wake up early and get ready for school only to disappoint myself.
I hit the snooze on my cell phone alarm clock.
I've had to change the ringer every other week. My body adjusts to it and I become immune to the waking ability.
The soap suds scurry past as I look straight down at my feet under the running water. Shampoo gets in my eyes and it stings, but I wipe it off with a towel. It happens more than once and before I know it I'm wiping shampoo into my eyes. I flip the towel over. It could be easier just to finish up.
I'm too tired to get out because I know it'll be cold as hell on the other side of the plastic curtain. I end up staring into a fogged-up mirror hoping to see something better on the other side but to no avail.
I eventually give in and turn off the faucets. Standing still probably isn't the best idea at this temperature and time of day.
Everyday I run through that same basic shower routine. Everyday I promise myself that tomorrow I won't be cold, I won't shiver, I'll get out and get ready. I'll wake up early and get ready for school only to disappoint myself.
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