raise an army or a flood

i awoke this morning with a gentle stream of gloden light flickering through the blinds, but i hasitly closed them. i crave the darkness. right now i feel as though there is nothing good in me. i want to be the villian, i want to be the one who you saw on the screen systematically killing off hundreds of thousands of people. i crave genocide. i feel like lately the entire world has been crashing down on top of me, not allowing me a second to catch my breath or ready my defenses. it just builds and builds, like early mathematics where if you missed a vital lesson, you would be lost for the entirety of your life. i missed several. right now i just can't handle anything or anyone. last night pacing along a rural highway i couldn't help but let out a scream to hallow out my cheeks and lungs. it was fallowed by another, and yet another until my voice box broke like an old record player, just scratching until there were scars. i want to burn it all down, all of modern civilization and start over. i wish i was noah, so i didn't have to deal with all the dishonesty and worthless problems people are constantly throwing in my face. if i could i would raise an army or a flood strong enough to wipe out everything in this entire world. i'm so sick of it all, and there is no cure. what am i supposed to fucking do? grow up and have a wife and kids, rack up credit card debt, maybe join a church? i want to be john muir, living in yosemite national park for all my days with a beard down to my knees, climbing trees during lightning storms. long story short, i never signed this contract, and now i want the fuck out.

give both life and death

i have now discovered why i have such a love affair with words. the beauty of transcibing thoughts on a page, and letting others marvel at them, no, this is not why i write. i write for the sheer thrill, the omnipotent feeling that is granted to the possessor of this ability. for in my writing i can give both life and death. in the premise of one sentence, i can kill multiple beings, and then in the next stanza bring them back to life. it is the feeling of control, and although the wind outside may bite and turn, they will never be able to effect the page, the pan, and the protagonist. here i am safe, free to expose who i dream to become, forgetting the moments for which i have lacked courage or judgement, because here, they have no bearing unless i expose them, and that will only occur with careful internal deliberation. i am free.

the me or the i

"and all your friends and sedatives mean well but make it worse"

i can't help but feeling like the water is rising, maybe the icecaps are melting, or maybe the rain has been falling against the hull for too long of a season, but it is evident that water didn't encompass me like this just days ago. there is a fight going on deep behind my furrowed brow, and i can't help but wonder if when the boxers finish dancing, who will stand? i've no longer the appetite to sleep, hunger pains ripping through my fragile limbs, keeping the light in my eyes. constantly i am concerned about the way you are living, so far away, i have no idea what is possible, and if i have the stomach for it. i want to live, i want to breathe, i want to watch the sun set. i want to show my children the ink in my arms with a wink when they come home and are worried about what the punishments will be. with her its as though i am changing, being molded into the person i've always shown in the light, but not the man i am when the shadows crawl over my skin. slowly the are turning around and around, no one throwing a punch, just slowly circling, like swordsman entrenched in a cinematic battle. one blade is bound to break the other, so let us see who can rise, the me or the i.

a windmill and a mangy dog

today was an interesting day. i drifted from one weary event to the next until i desperately scrambled across the horizontal state line and found myself in your arms again. stories of an unfortunate incident with a windmill and a mangy dog, reaching for objects high in the cupboards, and slowly spinning as we danced slightly out of time, drenched in sun. an escape is what i needed, and i found that solace in where i have been constantly looking all along, however, i had as of yet to open my eyes. the afternoon faded into an early season twilight and once again i raced across the concrete, back to the place where i rest my bones away from you. the constant reminder of you flickered across my broken vision as i tried to pass the evening away from you. then as the turncoat calender rotated, your voice drew me in yet again. three hours later and i just hung up the phone, you fast asleep like a child in caring arms, breathing lightly into the receiver. for several seconds i closed my eyes and imagined that you were right next to me, living the life we so often speak of, but so rarely believe in. you see, there is nothing inside these bones that would turn away from you now, and what mistakenly appeared to be fire, was only the aching i have to be in your presence again. i love you, more than i convey in words, more than you can imagine. goodnight my beautiful, goodnight.

snap, like a firecracker

everything feels like it's about to snap, like a firecracker. who can tell if it will be detrimental or a blessing in disguise. right now however, the match has struck the grainy exterior of the box, and the ignition is immanent. this is how the city falls to ashes. this is where the city streets will weep flames from the trees. this is the fall, the fire, and the futility.

about the odds and ends that compose this earth

i'm constantly muttering to myself about the odds and ends that compose this earth. what is this american fixation with opulence centered upon? is it all an excuse for our youthful insecurity? is it all a cover up for our quickly exposing weaknesses? i am personally attempting to cover up what my true intentions are and i have no idea why. i unwillingly sugar-coat things constantly, not letting my true colors show in the sun. why? and for what? i wish when i had a problem with something, or when something was getting the best of me, i could fight it, i could make it known, but no, i just cower in my corner. i'm getting tired of the delays, the excuses, the constant unwillingness the fight for this, it's like we are continuously in transit. i'm getting lost on the train. stumbling from compartment to compartment exchanging bitter words with the gloomy passengers as i attempt to find the light that had flooded the windows before i guided us into this tunnel. i'm sorry. i wish that everything could be open and to the light all of the time, but like the train in the tunnel, sometimes we must plunge deep inside and hide from god's true vision. i'm needing your touch, your simple smile, and your breath upon my cheek. hurry to me my love, the light is growing at the end of the tunnel with each passing mile, and soon i will be in the radiance of your beauty once again.

Listening to:

"Am I Wrong" - Brand New
"Meant to Be" - Denison Witmer
"Safety Bar" - De Capulet
"Okay, I Believe You but My Tommy Gun Don't" - Brand New

attempt to encounter some sharp rocks or jellyfish

at what rough and bleak point in time did every single production of human heart, labor, and mind become unoriginal? you see, as i am constantly bombarded by things entirely new or original, i seem to recognize a familiar pattern, a comforting melody, or some other sign that gives the creation away to be a forgery, an old favorite made over as to fool the eye and mind. everything seems to be in this cycle, from the clothes we wear, to the music that encapsulates our mind, to the everyday habits we encounter in each separate individual, nothing seems to have gone unencountered in some previous discourse or circumstance. even these writings are a forgery, just hawthorn and hemmingway crossbred with subject matter stolen from a certain member of the oberst family. everything is influenced and nothing is pure, it makes me want to stand on the edge of a very large cliff and attempt to encounter some sharp rocks or jellyfish at the end of a free fall. however, that in itself would not be an original course of action. it all feels hopeless, like the a.b. repeat button has been pushed on the world to prevent all of our eyes from opening at the commencement of the scene. i give up for now.

listening to:

"What's Your Glitch" - An Airbag Saved My Life
"William Fills the Pipe" - An Airbag Saved My Life
"That Brandon Walker Charm" - An Airbag Saved My Life
"Victoria's Secret is Out" - An Airbag Saved My Life

the fading paint of an archaic jungle gym

for a short time i was like the see-saw in the middle of the playground, encompassed in dirt and gently rocking up and down to the simple rhythm of gentle laughter and painfully skinned knees. as i would ascend i would gain a narrow perspective of the possible, the open ended chance that i could shatter free of the intertwining joints and bolts and be flung freely into the sky. it was a hope, it was a dream, but there was never going to be the freely transposed trust needed to just let go and venture forth towards the stream in the distance, over the fading paint of an archaic jungle gym to a place where there is the possibility that i could be free of the subtle yoke that holds us all in our intended places. i choose to stay. making the gently rocking postulate that will mark my cowardice until the end of my days. i choose to make her my everything, and she is more than obliging to do the same, at least for the time being. dreams of a western coast are only for those who have not found the solace they so desperately seek within their own borders and parameters. fifteen years, fifty years, or until the day that i breakdown and lay to rest, i will choose to be where i am, as long as it keeps comfortable with the gentle rocking motion that emulates the ocean. you see, the thing is, i love her, more than i ever imagined just a short time ago, and now i realize that where she rests is where i want to rest. where she sleeps is where i want to be. she is what matters, everything to this point has been a catatonic search for the thoughts and feeling that she inspires inside these weathered bones, and now i feel that comfort, the comfort of home.

listening to:

"Just Pretend" - The Bens
"Come on Eileen" - Dexy's Midnight Runners
"Do You Remember" - Jack Johnson
"With a Little Help From My Friends" - Joe Cocker

envisioned at the top

there are so many visions and distractions on the pathways to opulence or ruin. there are broken dreams and broken luck littered alongside the broken shining bottles on each road. a shining open light cascades from the top of the glittering steadfast mountains, and each chooses his own path. some burrow underneath the earth, and attempt to run through the caverns into the ever beating heart of the mountain, hoping one day to emerge from at the precipice, claiming a victory, no matter what the struggle took to begin with. others forge on the moral path of consciousness, attempting to scale through the sharp rock faces and grueling weather to possibly one day grasp the wonders envisioned at the top of that rock face. some attempt to mediate and find their own path through a combination of forces, at times flickering between the sun soaked paths and the shadow drenched depths, not unlike the movement of static on an old television screen. we all flow through the phases and cycles attempting to determine the right cause of action, and we hold back our breath and words to all but ourselves as we attempt to complete this course of action. we are too childlike and afraid to raise or rasped voices to one another and voice our plans, concerns, and faithfilled fears, petrified at the fact that maybe our words will fall on deaf ears, or not ring true enough with the others attempting this journey. somehow i have found that everything, the shining the pathway, the eternal complex of stars, is a vision inside of her eyes, a sea waiting to be navigated. i love her, she is the top of the mountain.

Borders.

Stop taking me so seriously you strangers, for you do not know who I truly am. You do not know that i fake weakness and vulnerability so that others don't feel so alone in their half hearted sarrows. you don't know that there is no heart that beats inside this tangled mass of veins, it has already been giving to my north star, my great love. you don't know the remorse i feel at the fact that in a different set of circumstances things would be compleatly different, and i would be able to hang the stars in your sky. you underestimate how much compassion and presence are in my being, i just don't take chances when showing it. you have no idea who i am, but i know you. i've seen hundreds of times at hundreds of shows in hundreds of different places. snapping photographs and playing cute, all for what purpose? you are currently martyring me for no worthwhile reason. mostly, you don't know why i do the things i do, and you don't understand that i care about you. no matter what.