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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.