Verdict

If I laid in that bed, organically dependent on some unpronounceable liquid, I don't know what color I would want the walls.

You often see a pale yellow. Perhaps with a subtle ornate pattern.
Faded yellow. A stained white.

To me, this is so stereotypical of the end. A shotty system that allowed me to finish here. Everyday I'd wake up surprised and thankful, only to see those yellow walls and remember that everyday will be like that for the rest of what I would presume to be a short life. I would stay awake all day and think about it, distracting myself with petty things in a desperate attempt not to regret.

White walls would be clean. Words like sterile and clean would flash through my mind. Perhaps I would wake up thinking that it already was the end. Then again, I would wake up and realize that this was too artificial. The clouds would never be this pure. The noise I see would only exist in the fluid of my eyes.

Maybe royal blue, something that lets me know that I'm still here. Something that would calm me down. Maybe I would remember you and expect you to walk through that door as if things were just like yesterday. I don't know what I would expect, really. Maybe an old friend, maybe someone that is no longer with me. I don't know want to think about that inevitable day. It scares me. It pulls at me, reminding me to cherish what is now. This is now.

It makes me want to be adventurous, but instead I sit and stare. I day dream all day in a way that I despise and love. In here, anything can happen. I am not the same man every day. I am not the line drawn in the sand. I am that something. Anything could happen. I could stare into eyes that show no disgust, no apologies. I would listen for a voice that brings me back. I would lay down with a body that is accepting.

On the other hand, that isn't happening at all.

I am not staring into those eyes, listening to that voice, lying with that body.

I am here.

Staring at the royal blue.

Yes.

Your Face

"Have fun with your face."

Really?

I could have said anything. Anything else.
Y'know. "Have a good day." "Good luck with your stuff."
Y'know. The classic lines.

But no. I had to say that ridiculous line like some sort of homage to our conversation. I mean, the joke had run its course. Here I was beating a dead horse but worse. I'm pretty sure I shot that horse, dragged it out back, and took a baseball bat to its children like I was dusting a carpet. At least, that's how I imagined it.

I complimented her glasses.

Oh hey, I like your glasses.
Thanks!
Yeah, they really bring out your... your...

I wanted to say intelligence, but I didn't want to insinuate that she looked dumb otherwise. No girl wants to hear that. Well, unless that's what they're going for.

So she said, "Face".

"Yes, yes. Your face. They really bring out your face."

Good job.

"I mean, your face is really what is being accented here. 'Hey, what's up? Love the face'"

Right, right. Lay on the funny.

"Your face just accents the rest of the package really. The icing on the cake."

Great. Done with the joke. Proceed to talking about class and the like. Schedule some sort of lunch date or something. Group lunch, of course. Then it's time to go our separate ways.

"Hey, have fun with your face!"

My palm hit my face so hard. Mentally of course. Gotta look smooth.

Well, as smooth as I could in this moment.

Old Dog

How do I know, if I could ever trust you?
Even if I know, I never really knew you

You're such a real ghost, hanging in the distance
A face with an unrealistic name,
But perhaps just too real to me

Not afraid of you the most, hope you work on persistence
A life beyond your drive
But perhaps just personality

You don't know me
Though you've heard about me, I bet
You don't know me
Though you've learned about me, unless

You weren't really paying attention
To your home, what was really going on
In front of your eyes

Have you worked it out?
(She doesn't deserve it)
Don't try to crawl out
(She doesn't deserve it)

Just tilt your head down
And figure this out

Zen Calendar

They say it's the end,
But how would I ever know?
How would I ever know?

I've got no hand to lend
But would they ever know?
How would they ever know?

It's shortness of breathe
Shortness of you
That keeps me unbalanced
Thrown off by you

I've lost my rhythm,
Can I borrow yours?
As the sun sets
And your body allures

Permanent tilted smiling
Caught off guard like dry lightning

I wonder if they'd ever know
Or if they'd even have to
Please not another wake up
It's too painful just to go through

Tramp Stamp (Is That Too Harsh?)

Dear "Sir" in quotations
Hello and salutations
It's a little repetitive
but I don't care

I know that you've been looking
But sorry, we're not cooking
It's just a recipe
Not meant to be

Dear Girl Across the Nation
I see that you're mistaken
For someone who's elated
But I don't care

I know that I've been looking
And I know that you're not working
Miss Number 9
Is all you'll be to me

History that I've made up
Is the problem child of
A Cheerleader, a geek,
and a rumor that was leaked

We will never try to start over
You are set in your ways to learn
A size zero and a half
Now your pictures make me laugh

Dear "Miss" in quotations
Hello and salutations
6 years later still
and I don't care

Stuck up in the middle
Ever since you were little
What did I ever imagine
Would evolve from you and me in the end?

Distress Alert

There's the green light
Next to the telephone
Ready for you
To pick it up

You act like you're all alone

Out during night
A long away from home
Ready for you
to pick it up

You act like you're all alone

There's a reason
for every bit of effort
As you clench your teeth, there's another

There's a reason
You have no regrets tonight
You still can't forget together forever

Hanging Around

“He's gonna do it!”
“He's gonna jump!”

At 5:37 PM, a man was standing on the ledge of a building that happened to be a hotel. Presumably, he rented a room before making his way up to room 915, opening the freshly streaked window, and climbing out on the ledge using the convenient balcony. This spectacle caused a crowd of people to gather around below in addition to the numerous strobe lights of emergency vehicles that appeared much more palliative than preventive. As if traffic was bad enough during rush hour.

Funnily enough, earlier that day, that very same man wasn't too worried about his life and how long it would last. As usual, he began his hour long commute to work. He lived outside the city in the safety of the suburbs, a place where he was born and raised and where his father was born and raised, etc. He definitely wasn't a big city boy, but he had little choice given his circumstance. Living on his own and attempting to pay the bills on an art degree would be nearly impossible, even though he knew his artwork had a permanent residence in his mother's home (“So proud of you! So proud!”).

The man wasn't one for presentations, but his boss insisted he lead this one. After all, what better use for an art degree than the creation of infinite charts and graphs plotting the progress of some office supply company? His daily commute was a little less lonely, however, what with the pieces of cardboard in the passenger seat to keep him company. He needed someone to talk to, especially this morning. Between getting out of bed late and destroying his coffee with creamer, he was falling behind in his schedule. He was late and the traffic lights were not helping him. They swung back and forth with an embarrassed red emitting from them as if they were sorry about it and there was nothing they could do about it. He took a sip from his coffee between the stop and go. Green light. Red light. Green light. Red light. The man took his eyes away for a second to take another sip when the car behind him honked, causing him to fumble his thermos up and down the dashboard. He saved it, but not before turning quarter profits into a caffeine loaded Niagara Falls.

That's it. He was done with this for now. The car was pulled over into the parking lot of the nearest bar and the man called to let his boss know that due to an emergency, he wouldn't be able to make it to the presentation and to go on without him. Slam the door. Walk inside. Sit down at the front. He had this plan all figured out.

What he didn't have figured out was a man. Well, he was less a man and more of a demon. Perhaps more like a reaper of sorts than a demon. He didn't do much of the haunting or possessing. He did, however, do a little of soul repossessing, taking back a soul to an afterward after they were done here. With the world getting a little more full everyday, the pressure was on for him and the death figure needed all the help he could get. Having spotted Potential Suicide Man at the bar, he took the stool next to him. The man was quick to start up a conversation, letting him know of his current issue of the day. Death quickly let him know of his current issue and gave him a hotel key to a room on the 9th floor (great view, but lacked decent room service). After weighing the pros and cons, the man took the key and drove over to the hotel.

Death was right about one thing: the room did have a decent view. The pavement didn't look so hard from up there. Despite the circumstances, the man had a calm disposition and only muttered phrases under his breath (“Oh, what a great view from up here. Oh, what many lights there are down there. Better for the attention I suppose”). He stayed up there for at least twenty minutes. Even the optimists were starting to get bored.

“Woah, woah, hold up!” The hotel room door opened and the man peaked through the balcony window only to see Death walking towards him. “Listen, I know what I said earlier, but that street would look a lot better without you fused to it. The thing is, we're overbooked for the next few weeks. Go back to your life, enjoy it. Don't fret about those crazy graphs. Besides, if I need more people, I'll just work the suicide hotline or something. Christmas is coming up soon. Tis the season to be lonely.” Somehow, the skeleton sighed. “Go back home,” he said, and left the room with the man still on the ledge.