Of All The Open Books

On Independence Day I find my scripture; spitting venomous ambiance in every direction.

I find solace in turning the pages of this book. Marred and maltreated in previous hands, the frayed pages still hold so much beauty. Every line flows effortlessly into the next, narrating through over a decade's worth of insecurities, and outlining foreign plots. Bound with dark leather, its words sear through my flesh, and play in my head repeatedly; skips on the record.

Nobyo.
Skip.
Nobyo.

I ache from the literary induced emotions. For after these last few years, feeling is abnormal. Suppress, suppress, cracks in the pavement, broken backs. Cigarette in hand, i shake, i smile. Being happy has always made me uneasy.

The prose turns its back on me, and slowly begins to leave. The words become poetry. Every punctuation is fluid, rhythmic. Still, they lack reason. A free-fall of letters that combine slowly, building a wall of sounds. A moment of tension, a release, strings echoing, mourning the loss of my inhibition. I would break down, and burst into tears from the emotion, but everyone knows that hysteria isnt hysteria when you are the only one who witnesses it.

Never before have i so intently anticipated turning a page...

Time For A Change

The moon draws a spotlight
Down upon rampant industry of the night.
Pharmaceuticals trade hands like a lover's kiss connects.
Teenage angst cries in desperation,
"If i could do it all again..."

Ensnared by the coincidental,
The dreams of youth have been left to rot.
The young man listens with circumspection to the walls,
Speaking in tongues so foreign
Delirium is recalled.

Thinking, out with the old.
Yellow and blue to keep him sane.
Sinuses explode like Hydraulics void of Oxygen.
To his head, with hidden messages,
Or to the floor with seizures.

The man in black is singing
Requiems of life to be lived ahead.
Six feet seems so much deeper through the eyes of the living
A choice to be made by a prodigal son,
To spare a mourning mother.

All The World's A Stage

Enter stage right, the rightful heir to the throne of superficiality. Exit stage left, dethroned blonde ambition towards inevitable loss of interest.

We are all actors in the sense that we all breathe.

Enter consciousness, lights up, draw the curtain.

Thusly goes the dramatic ballet of the human race, twisting and twirling it’s way back and forth between true emotion, and pure unbridled exaggeration. In this day and age no person screams because they need to emote. People scream, my friends, because we all have the need, instilled in us from the birth of consciousness, to play the part.

I’ve seen the best actors of our time come and go, none of them on television or movie screens. I’ve seen individuals make the public believe things that would stun the devout believers. I have seen the decay.

Roll camera, quiet on the set, cue tears in three, two, one…

And so the dead rise.

Shine, baby, because after these fifteen minutes, fame will be a figment, and you will truly be fucked.

Excuse me please while i go tear myself to pieces,
Welcome to where we disagree on thoughts of fidelity and broken words.
Let a chorus coincide with every time we try to leave it,
Where you stand is where i jumped to a conclusion and left the herd.

Let us part ways,
Because i cant stay
in a situation wherein i cant think straight.
Lets wait for the walls to open eyes to sunshine.

The New Age

Intrigue.

Welcome to an age of static and instability. In this world of communication devices permanently cemented to the human ear, i find my solace in the unraveling of the human psyche. Sometimes though the pieces don't pull apart as easily as you would like. Never roadblocks, always challenges.

For me the sensuality lies within the challenge. So i find myself in dilemma. Between sex and sense lies an unfortunate contradiction; leave the perverts to their perversions, my mind is a weapon.

Intrigue.
Temptation.

Words are knives; my personality, exposed skin. With burns and rope my mind twists its way back and forth around ideas of sin and the like. Welcome to an age of static and instability. In this world of sex scandals and demoralization I find my hindrances within my own head. I've become my own worst enemy. It becomes hard to distinguish beauty through the haze, but there are always those that present themselves as undeniable.

I've never noticed the breezes from the east until now. The sun's rays have never shown as brightly as they have in the past few weeks, though they have been fleeting, brandishing their brief cameos between the summer storms. Even though for the most part the skies have been dark, the breezes have brought me solitude.

Intrigue.
Temptation.
Comfort in the breeze.

Welcome to an age of static and instability. In a world where the sunlight tries to hide from your stare, still I find my comfort in this breeze from the east.

The Day I Met The Man In My Head

I walked down Broughton St. with my hands in my pockets, numb from the winter chill. As the wind whipped my face the demons in my head whispered sweet nothings of not exactly ideal connotation in my ear. I was ignoring them again. It was always better not to give them the chance to upset me.
My neck tensed up. The twitching had started.
The man with the raspy voice began to speak again.
I'm talking to you, you fuck.
A quick retort, "I know you are..."
You failed her. You do realize that, don't you?
Twitch.
You told her you would never let anything happen to her. Where is she now?
Twitch.
Twitch.
I opened my eyes to an immediate realization that I was no longer walking. The violent spasms in my neck had cemented my feet to the ground underneath them. I stood still, in silence on the cracking sidewalk.
Twitch, jerk, shake.
People were beginning to stare.
I took a moment to collect myself.
I continued my walk towards Whitaker. There was a show at Melissa's and I was intent on pushing my way into the pit and putting a few scene kids on their asses. Maybe it was because they wanted me to. It could have been that I was just ready to not be so full of hate and disdain for this place and violence seemed like my only exit. I didn't want to be here, in this town, for another minute without her. She was my everything.
She was only putting up with your ass, kid.
"Stop."
She never really cared about...
"Stop!"
I realized I had been carrying on a conversation with someone that didn't exist out loud.
People were staring.
I jogged to the corner of Whitaker. Rob's red Tahoe was screaming towards me from down the street. The man in my head spoke again.
She died because of you. You should have protected her. You know you cant get rid of me without her. You know you cant live without her. Its over for you. So end it. Step into the street.
Rob was still hauling ass towards me
Step into the street, he said again. He was louder now, his tone of voice had changed.
Now.
Do it!
He was getting louder still and now there was the sounds of screams in my ears. Voices crying out in pain as if being burned by the very surface of the sun.
Do it now!
More screams.
I clapped my hands over my ears. My legs buckled but I never felt the impact of my kneecaps on the hard concrete.
The Tahoe sped by, suddenly there was silence.
I was on my knees, not to mention the verge of tears from the terror of the ordeal.
People looked away.
A voice.
My name is Atticus. I will be the end of you... and you will pay for the things you have done.
This is how I met the man in my head.

Back From Rock Bottom

I've got this shortcut to rock bottom that I don't want to use anymore.
You can have it if you'd like but I'm not sure what you'd use it for.
All of our friends will die when they turn twenty-one.