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.