Far away

Seven secrets slither, snakelike, binding into ego, vomiting vile venom. destroying self-worth. The ignorant knowledge of personal truth. The depths of our own dishonesty. Bleed as me, one drop at a time, red as the sky. Frontiers of untapped imagination wilting behind a desk. Snort your salvation, success. I'd kill you as long as I can believe you are different than me as the knife slides slowly between those ribs, parting the void behind where a heart like mine resides.

Let if fall

It doesn't have to be perfect the first time through, it just has to get the cursor moving. Productivity flames inspiration as well as the reverse. Punch the keys. Hack the cobwebs with a hand axe. Manage mischievous moments. Spill a little bit of life on the page. Buy a round.






I told this girl who moved my world, "Let's make a sound so loud it will shake the ground." So she found a way. Cracked me in two then became the glue to heal our soul through and though.


We parted ways, strayed, and rediscovered the other's pains. Came back around a time or two before we knew how to exist without each other's kiss. "Let it fall." she said, "the seed will sprawl and soon be a tree so tall it will touch the sky before we die once and for all."

parting shots

We're all culpable of the good we choose not to do in the world. You know the moment well, the decision to pick up the piece of trash on the beach or give a ride to a stranger.

Collective intolerance begins not in some distant place from a foreign entity but with you. It doesn't matter what you agree or disagree with. What matters is your ability to comprehend that you are not actually different from those you dissent from.
We are the culprit of our own immuring. With each decision a division. Insecurities run rampant, maiming potential and rippling forth, drowning standers by.

 

a thousand times

We're not so different, you and me. Parting paths with political platitudes.
Every human being is chasing what feels good to them. For some that's temperance. For others it's excess. Choose whiskey and be labeled an alcoholic. Choose faith and you're a zealot. Choose drugs and we call you an addict, love sports and you're a fanatic. Food a glutton, and money a success. What are you chasing? What's suppressed?
Vice? Virtue? I'll take mine by the gallon. Pour it down. I'm hollow.

My family lives in a different state

tick tick tick tick
It's leaving at a beautiful rate. All that time, that useless reminder of who we could have been. Drop stock, buy life. Soil and sound and breath it down 'till the last alveoli drown. Failure is your friend, reflecting your black-tooth grin. Sinew snaps while synapse collapse. Each toke burns a keystroke and whisky drowns an inhibition.
Pulse, rhythm, and beat. Another night beneath a cold sheet, alone.

A daunting task, stringing together a hundred-thousand anythings.

Watch it Burn

Charred, bloody resolve. Writing, like there’s something to prove. Clear, simple, plain. The shame and disdain of making a name. Etching lines with finger nails on concrete walls, fading before the thought concludes. A budding arm from an already crowded tree. A redundant thought squeezed between the branches of a fading breath. 

"Move on." He screams. "Your time here is up. Evolve into your next sophomore year." Bludgeon the senses, bleed mediocrity, believe. 

Simplicity at it's Finest

This is where the pain starts. This is where it ends. The finger stroke caress of the keys. The abrasive glow of the screen in an otherwise dark room, void of content. Here it finds me, desirous of everything and nothing all at once. An empty bottle of hope still present amidst the deteriorating flavor of life. 

She sleeps, shrouded in ease. Another warm evening spent strategically separated, the thin sheet keeping the monsters at bay. Thoughts of distant worlds dance in my head and collide in perfect violence with the monotony of living. Live less, write more. Or the opposite. 

When who we hope to be finally meets the person we’ve been all along, a desperation departs. It’s a magic moment. 

So now what? Where do we go from here? In all of time, it’s never been easier to make a living as a writer. “A living” … money. That isn’t what this is about though. Do I love this? That’s a romantic question. Am I good at it? That’s an honest one. I’d say I am, good at writing that is. What would happen if I dedicated my full self to this endeavor. I have never before committed myself to a profession for more than a couple of years. I’ve always been afraid to discover if my initial successes were flukes. Sure, I know how to punch a key, but am I that good? am I as good as I’ve been sweet talked into believing? Perhaps I don’t have to be. I read Hemingway and Kerouac and Thompson and it’s not because they’re the best writers. I read them because they interest me as human beings. Am I an interesting enough human being to add my name to a list like that? 

When will I know I succeeded in life? Will there be a feigned smile and gold watch on an arbitrary day announcing to the world I’ve effectively paid my dues? 

She wakes, upset. It’s well past two and the obnoxious glow of the screen combined with the intrusive nature of cat stirs her unrest. It’s all just a pile of words, until you can make someone feel something with them. That’s what real writing is. Tangible success in a world of emotion is a gracious review. Pretentious faux elevations from professional critics remain the high praise, self-stroke, glutinously fervent devouring ego, maintaining narcissistic motivations. 

Praise. Fulfillment. Finding a voice in the world.