Cold rooms and whispers

Like waves washing in and out. The constant shift. Coming closer, yet slipping further away. Silence blaring louder than ever. Teeth bearing into our lips. Eyes screaming for more. Fingertips begging for another touch. Mouths in a cool room sending forth warm signals to one another. Soft whispers and cracked voices. Smoking too much. Too many anxious movements, placement of hands is a mystery. Comfort, uncomfortable. Uncomfortably comfortable. Wrap you up a little tighter, hating to see you shake. A couple brisk strokes through the hair to show I'm there and care. Everlasting. Share the last drag, save two for us. Love.

A Rant.

Let's have a rant.

Psycho babble seems too evident these days. Typing different words with the same purpose and drive. Over and over. Not often do I just sit here and type what comes to mind at the precise time that it becomes an electrical charge from brain to finger tips. Truth be told my handwriting is so damn sloppy that it's completely illegible by the time I'm done. Thinking too fast, writing too fast, fingers start hurting from my grip because I never know when to let up. I can't gauge myself very well either. It's all or nothing. "It's all or nothing with you and him." said a woman to my father once. She was completely right. I want everything, or I want defeat. To be able to let go. To be able to move on with a purpose rather than letting go without a purpose and going on wondering and wandering for ages. Or at least until the object ceases to exist. Or be attainable. If it's a possibility then it's never out of mind. Out of sight out of mind doesn't exist in me. All or nothing. It's a funny thing because honestly nothing is a form of something and all can be an adjective describing all of the nothing that there is. And with all the nothing in me, I could fill a decently populated neighborhood in a matter of seconds.
      Letting go. I was told by my therapist when he still lived in the area, "Don't grip people, hold them lightly in the palm of your hand." Referring to relationships and such. But doesn't everyone have the general fear of being left alone? So they grip to some extent. At least that's what my brain leads me to believe. Death is inevitable, for everyone. But maybe if you hadn't have let up on your grip for that second it wouldn't have happened. Terrifying isn't it? That stupid thought that your grip could affect someones lifespan. Self-diagnosis is: From my sisters death I have an increased fear of being left alone. Mainly I believe that my perception of life is through the skew of time and age of people versus what they've done in life. I want to do things quickly and thoroughly so that I can have some sense of accomplishment. In general/before I'm six feet under with a heavy stone keeping my head from raising. And I think that is easily noticed from my work. When I work I want to look back at it and be pleased. Rarity, but it's my personality. When I write something, I read it many times. When I draw something I look at it many times. Then I forget about it. Then later I look at it again and see my flaws. I would like to think that I grow to some degree in doing that. Maybe I'm just a narcissist. I hope not. If I am then someone should tell me so I can go ahead and end this mess.
         I'm tired of worrying about what I am. Maybe I'm an honest-to-god asshole. Maybe I'm a manipulative prick that everyone tries to stay away from. Maybe I'm a narcissist. Maybe I'm a tool. Maybe I just want attention. Maybe I'm actually a decent person, with decent morals. I suppose I can't be that bad of a person if I can worry about it.
         I can't remember where I heard it, maybe a movie, but it's an interesting quote.
         There was a boy, he was worried if he was a bad person. He told someone, possibly his father, that he was worried about if he was bad and was going to hell.
         His father said, "You have nothing to worry about."
         The boy said, "Why's that?"
         "Because only good people wonder if they're bad."
         Then the boy replied, "What about the bad people?"
         "Bad people know they're good."

     And, dear god, I'll be the first to tell you I know I'm not a good person. With the hatred I harbor, the distrust, the wrath I feel towards humanity as a whole. The rage, the envy, the never-ending annoyance I feel. It's all such a burden. And having those thoughts make me sick. But if I wasn't this way, then I wouldn't be who I am. I wouldn't be who I am to others, or myself. But I wouldn't know either way. And that's best.
     No one knows what/who they are for a good reason. If everyone knew what/who they are, then we would've all committed suicide by now. Maybe, maybe not. Possibly that's just my standpoint, but I'm sure someone agrees with that statement.

    I'm searching for a resolve here. I suppose my resolve is: I don't know what I am. And it's best that way. And I hope someone loves me for what I am to them. And I hope what I am to them is enough for a lifetime.
    Maybe I'm just trying to love myself for who I am. And I'm hoping it's enough for a lifetime. Because I'm stuck with myself forever, and at this point I can't stand myself as it is.

    Ah, fuck it.

Think of Me

Vampiric vultures
voracious vitality
vile verve.

A hermit again. Huddling, hugging a rock. Home. Housing on a hill overlooking hell.
Head spinning, hurling voids.
Hounds howling at the door. Headspace invaded. Emotions paraded.

Hell, where I dwell, is where I fell. Post traumatic stress induced amnesia. Generalized anxiety procured insomnia. A.D.H.D. spilling forth depression. Clinical depression creating the downward spiral into the up-draft of A.D.D. happiness. Lather-Rinse-Repeat.

Happiness is just a chemical shift away.
Unease is just a name away.

I feel it just as you see it. The glimmer fades, the shine turns into rot.

I'll be gone for a while.
Think of me.

Atonement In Several Verses

Death in the air today
I'll watch it from the safety of my hood
The first cold sunday
Earlier, the parents prayed
and the children never understood

The brow of old men shows concern
the denial of eternal return
To the alter the candle will burn
and all their stomachs will churn

Your blind faith, I envy
Today I bet you'll see me
with your eyes filled with pity
And I'll assure you, soon I'll be free.

Miles down the road is my alter
made of rock, covered in moss
I'm a mistake, a falter
I'm the side of the coin you didn't know about
then to the air you toss

Where will you go
When where I am is unknown

I'll be home.

Atoned.

A Song For Us Small Town Punks.

Just a couple of small town punks
laughing at the times and all the small town drunks.
With a mind that can trip
the largest of cowboy boots on a small town hick.
Size doesn't matter, your beer gut is getting a little fatter.
The bigger the truck, the less I give a fuck.
Don't humor yourself, you aren't getting to me.
But if you give those eyes again,
you aren't getting off scott free.

=]

Who Am I Today?

So, what am I today? A nice long sleep in? A morning drive without your phone? A meeting with your next of kin? A ticket from running over a safety cone? I'm a nice lie. I'm a rapid blinking of your eye. Knowing my existence is non-existent makes me wonder what difference it would be to die. Tonight, I will dine alone. And wander through my room like an empty home. With no photos on the mantle, and no messages on the phone. It's hard to chew the meat when there is none on the bone.

        Tomorrow, though, I will be reborn.

Return.

The forest at night is deep, dark, and dreary. Distant from humans and civilization lies definition of death. Silence. Solitude. Solace. Splendor.
       The canopy is a cornucopia of leaves, branches, and wreckage of lost company. Trunks are merely the mundane hallways leading to nowhere but another corridor. An endless cavern of continuous searching for life. Rushing through the labyrinth is the first mistake. Not looking forward is the second. Looking back is the third. And finally, searching for life is the last. Waving your defenseless flag at full mast. Yelling for someone to hear you, fear hits you fast. Looking back in terror. Staring at the ground, you could've seen the exit, but you passed. Running in circles because one foot is larger than the other, should've kept your eyes on the most distant object. Your equation isn't solved yet.
       Keep hyperventilating. You're only feeding the plant life surrounding. For miles, your heart is the only one pounding.
       Tripping, stumbling, sweat dripping, mumbling.
      
       Guard rail.

       End of the trail.

       The highway in front of you. Cars passing by at great speeds. Loud music. Cigarette butts flying out of cracked automatic windows. The smell of carbon monoxide, burning rubbing, leaking radiator fluid, asphalt cooling after a long summer day, decaying flesh of the raccoon that was struck. Getting too close to the road, covered in scrapes, cuts, bruises, tears, tree sap, someone honks their horn, swerves, and screams inaudible curses.
 
       You turn back

       Step over the guard rail

       And return to the wild with a greater knowledge.

An Oak in the Woods

Break the bottle over your head
Let your brain bleed out what it was fed
Gnaw at the roots, you were not bred
You were harvested
Singled out, cloned, pruned, under fluorescents in the shed
I can't help how my branches grow
But I've been wiring them, giving them better flow
Headspace for foliage, don't go
My trunk is twisted from lightning, I know
Rockabye baby in the tree top
There's no way I'll let it drop
We carved into this tree
I let you free
And god, I hope you come back to me.

Looking back into the future.

We wake up.
I light cigarettes for two,
and hand one to you.
We stare at each others eyes for a while,
you notice we forgot the laundry towards the corner in a pile.
Laughing we retire with our backs on the bed,
thoughts of what we did with our time instead.
Finishing our morning nicotine, I put on a record.
You lean over to extinguish the ember and sing to me like a bird.
Followed with a quick forceful kiss,
as you rise out of bed, my hands drifting off your hips.
Following you to the kitchen, I act like i'm dying of starvation.
Asking for eggs and bacon in a smiley face presentation.
Stamping my feet in persistence,
you ignoring my existence,
until I say, "Pleeeeeeease?!"
with puppy dog eyes and shaking knees.
We sputter a couple giggles and make breakfast for two,
sitting on the couch waiting for coffee to brew.
Watching cartoons and speaking of childhood memories,
how easy it was for the young mind to be pleased.
It starts raining while we eat.
So after our meal, we talk a stroll down the street.
Stomping in the puddles and bumping into one another.
Soaking wet with rain, I hug you with a smother.
Walking to the gas station, avoiding traffic.
The day just to us, to avoid the havoc.
Upon arrival, a few scoff, a few let out a tut.
But you turn so elegantly, arms out, palms up.
And reply with a perfectly and pleasantly placed...
"What?"
They turn and we go about our business.
They're all just jealous.
Who couldn't be?
Two young ones, living free.
Fuck your shopping, we're on a living spree.
"It's just you and me, Hunnybunny."

There is a such thing as perfection
Nothing is as perfect as our connection.
We see everything from one set of eyes.
No one can cut these ties.
I feel everything that you feel,
to the point that it's surreal.

You want me to create.
Well I will, and I'll wait.
Just remember that everything I have is for you.
My life, my art, my soul. Everything I do,
it's all a creation for you.
I'll sacrifice everything to see this through.
How can we go wrong if we're perfect.

The List

Let's say, in precisely thirty-one days, I were to go to sleep and never wake up. And I were to know this ahead of time. These are some things that I would do in that timespan.

• First I would inform the family, get all the paper work and shit out of the way. Hug everyone as they cried and whatnot. Ask for forgiveness for all the wrongdoings I had done. Tell them I love them. You know, that melodramatic/theatrical type of stuff.
• Second, I would give all my possessions, material or money, to the proper people. 
• Thirdly I would spend a couple days in the woods, alone.
• Then I would quit my job, tell all the managers to shove it up their asses. Maybe toss something in about, "If I am to die in (particular amount of time) I want you all to remember me," Something life-changing and mind shattering.
• After that, I would make my love take a leave of absence. We would travel to concerts. Sleep in hotel rooms, my car, where ever we could. Eat at all the famous restaurants, I would get her tattoos from famous artists. I would do anything she wanted, I would just be happy to see her happy.
• I'm sure I would vandalize some places, create some havoc, leave my mark everywhere we went. Leave my fingerprints on everything and make sure she wore gloves, so that nothing can be traced. Except to some boy that would be dead by the time they got to him.
• (Nothing too major, don't worry.)
• After the week or two of traveling and such. We would come back to the lovely mid-west where we belong and relax. Sleep under the stars, huddle together on rooftops, take pictures of good moments. Climb trees, collect mementos, paint, draw, play music, listen to music, read, stare at eachother for hours. Learn every wrinkle in the others hands, every color change in our eyes, every vein in our wrists. Talk and talk till we can barely get out a sound. 
• We would go see my parents
• Mom first
• Then my to my Fathers. We would all sit and talk, I would make them laugh. Then when my love and father got tired, we would go to bed (this being night thirty-one.). I would give my father the biggest hug ever, tell him how much I love him. And I would lay in bed with my love, we would talk late at night for the last time. Kiss for the last time. Hold eachother for the last time. And when she fell asleep, I would sneak out to the woods. I would walk to where I set up a spot beforehand. A comfy bed, my baby-blankets, my childhood stuffed animals, and a picture of my sister. Then I would smoke a cigarette and go to sleep.

      Being selfish is hard, but if you're having trouble figuring out what to do, a list always helps. It's like tricking your brain into thinking about itself. 

      I think this list is pretty non-descriptive. There would be particular bands to see, particular artists to get ink from, particular places to go. Particular things to do on particular days. But the way I see it, figure out what you would do in this situation, and work on it. Not in such a finalizing matter, or fatal manner, but if you want to travel to see a band, do it. If you want to disappear into the woods, do it. If you want to ask for forgiveness, do it. If you want to sit and stare at your love's hands for hours, do it. You could die tomorrow, or an hour from now, or in sixty years. But at least you did what you would've done if you had known. 

       I was talking to my friend today about influence by bands. And I told him, "There is no point of making a list of who influenced your ideals of music. Because even if you hated a band and what they stood for, they still influenced you. They influenced you into not being like that. They still pushed you towards a goal." Everything has influence. Everything gives you a push towards something great.

      Get influenced.

You're coming with me.

God damn my eyes.
Fifteen miles, as the crow flies
in the northeasterly direction,
lies in slumber the one worthy of my protection.
My devotion.
Nature will be determining the motion,
just as the moon controls the ocean.
Gravity is a funny thing,
with all the lessons it can bring.
As well as the branches to which we cling,
wondering,
"If I was alot higher up. Could I produce the strength to pull myself up?"
The human body is capable of more miraculous feats of strength than such.
But it's a more than valid question to ask, and I think I ask myself entirely too much.
"Can I produce the strength to pull myself up?"
Yes
And I intend on pulling you up with me.

The funny thing about airplanes is.

I mowed lawns with my father today for the last time this summer. It's our time alone to shoot the shit and talk about what we've been pondering and whatnot. And these were some thoughts of mine.

Attraction is one fucked up thing. It's comfort, control, abuse, misuse, sometimes one-time use. It can be a noose. It can break someone, or break someone loose. It can make acute into obtuse. You'll never know throughout the feeling, what the end will produce.

Fear, anguish, terror. 

Love eternal, passion, hope.

Or

"I love you all for the same reasons that I couldn't shoot crippled horses." -Gaza lyric

It can make a grown man cry, it can make a young man want to die.

It can push you to new limits and further your mind.

Or it can be the reason you don't believe in wearing a seatbelt anymore.

It's so tiresome, so exhausting. But the world turns because of attraction, it stays a certain distance from the sun from it, we are pulled to the ground by it. Humans were meant for it.

I suppose it could be a good answer for that eternal question of, "Why are we here?"

It's what makes the world go around.

It's what will be the end of the world.

I Shouldn't, But I Do

Why do I have this care, this ability to restrain? This fear of wrongdoing. Why?
I barely care for humanity as a whole.
God knows I don't give two flying cusses about myself.
This need is tearing a whole through me, but I literally can't do anything about it.
Maybe this is to be my winter. All to my own to enjoy. But I feel like I can't enjoy it without that which I need.
If there's any justice in the universe, then I am receiving it currently.
Karma circles. I got the, "good." Now it's time for the, "bad."
But it's like those terrible days, where somehow nothing bothers you. Walking through fire and mistaking the flames licking your heels for ice that you can't keep the balls of your feet stable on.
I'm not tired anymore.
I'm not stressed anymore.
I'm not worried anymore.
I'm just existing, co-exsisting, and living.

Or something like that.

I'm more like: Worried that i'll get stressed and tired over not existing, co-existing, or living like I should.

And I shouldn't. But I do.

And that's the story of my life right now.

"I shouldn't, but I do."

How much is it to rent a hearse? I don't think i'll have the money for it when the time comes.

Ravenous

Let it pour,
poor soul couldn't muster a sound.
Let it rain,
Reign over everything there is in existence.
Persistance, perseverance, pro-active pessimistic mess.
Get it off my chest,
attention: this isn't a test
there will be no sleep or rest
until these lips are tightly pressed
and we forget about everything, down to how we're dressed.
Could be hours, could be days
could be weeks or months until the right words are phrased.
Believe, bereave
I never know if, when, or how to leave.
I dread the ride home
I fear the chills leaving my bones.
I've become dependent upon this feeling
without it I go reeling
ravenous
intravenous
strychnine
teeming

This could be the greatest turning point ever. The greatest endeavor.
Paint the landscape with my blood, let it be a flood
Because I've finally got things figured out.

Life beats you down, and doesn't let up

The dog circles the mound-under which the body is bound-to a flock of lies-and broken ties.

It circles again-and retires-with it's chin-upon the masters loving grin.

Nothing matters anymore