I love any direction your face falls.
Fall toward meeee

Someone once told me my soul was "immortal". I believed him.

lol

i stopped fighting, i started riding writing

It's 4:35 a.m... I finally finished the cover for my first publication. :)

A lot of things do not stay the same.

I do not censor what I say because I DO NOT CARE about being politcally correct.
In fact, I support the opposite.
If you do not like that, then moooovveee onnnn.
Now, if you will please excuse me, I've got some piano to play.

it's so hot here i can hear the animals cryyyyy

i lost all my inspiration cause i realized i was in loveeeee

I can not handle the whole universe.
The thought for which to admit to such a grand escape and enclosure... Is there no where else to go beyond the walls of infinity? Am I to find blackness, or is there light? Will this light blind me or will I be exposed to the burning white hues of a secret my eyes were never supposed to know? I can not handle the whole universe because I can not handle the threat that gravity provides for. If I were to fall... Where would I go? I mean to say, if the laws of gravity and gravity itself were to fail me and this planet, were would we really fall to? (And at what rate?)

I think there exists an intimidation factor between the universe and myself because all of it's secrets and hiding places are all I can seem to think or write about. I can pick up a pen and forget how to write but I can never sulk on the moon nor the sun, nor the stars or the planets alignment and not feel physically compelled to move myself or my ink against the paper provided.

(I'm scared of bursting open a sweetly violent though potent nonetheless scent and sight of an illumination that I shan't be allowed to hide from the rest of the world. Does the world really even matter? That's what I am afraid of, that's the truth.)

Gloom consumes me upon the very thought that I should never be allowed or able to look the universe straight in the eye and admit... "I owe you."

Thank God I Heard a Roll of Thunder, I was about to Grieve For Ever

Who am I? What do I contribute? What makes me happy anymore? What makes me sad? Or mad? What do I care about? What do I stand for? What would I fall for? Anything at all? What matters so much to me that I would be alone forever for? What moves me? What drives me? What makes me lesser? What makes me greater? What do I delight in? What do I demise in? What makes me feel secure and safe? And what makes me feel scared and afraid? Which of those two extremes do I actually prefer to feel? Do I feel or do I just touch? Am I felt or am I just touched? Where am I going? Where did I come from? Why am I here? Who am I?


It's really hard for me to feel sometimes.........
Sometimes my mind goes insane
I forget where I am or what I feel
in fact, I forget how to feel (anything but pain)

the summer changed me, 'cause now i'm not as good as i used to be.
i was born in the winter, since then my blood has always run cold.

I prefer the term, "ruthless". But you did it to yourself.

This is not the kind of nightmare you're trying to be.

You would always complain about how you never got any sleep. That's because you were always out somewhere else in the night, chasing girls to their deaths in their dreams.

Is that the kind of lover you always thought you'd grow up to be?
But some time after four a.m. you stopped loving, you started destroying.

Is that the kind of lover you always thought you'd grow up to be?

I couldn't openly advertise any of my writings anymore because all of them were about you.

I used to never let my candles burn. I would buy all of the most beautiful, aromatic, sometimes even vintage candles and/or candle holders... and I would never let them burn!!! I would place them prettily about my bedroom, my living rooms, my dining spaces... I used to look at them and wish I could burn them but never do so because I did not want them to burn out and have to replace them.

Well fuck that. Now I let them BURN.

Everything was going fine and wonderfully, until I was reminded you were dead.

Damn. I'm worried I'm getting into Fashion again.

I don't like you for a reason. (You're the reason.)

"We will exchange clauses"

" I miss everything about life. Remember the movements and the mournings? Remember the beauty and the pain? I do. I remember nothing and everything. The summer did that to me. "
" It was July 1998, and I had no idea what you were going to do to me. It flooded that summer... I was left home to drown. No body knew that. You probably did though. "
" We met during the winter and the waves of cold. The tavern was lit in a detrimental shade, of amber. You were wearing lace and ribbons. With a white powdered face. You were so cute. So fucking cute. You tasted like a darling too. "
" 'What is your name?' That was all I could say. "
" 'It rhymes with addiction.' "


Ha ha ha! Jack and I exchanging clauses^^^^^ while Pat and Michael were drawing up mushrooms and snails and rocketships and whales and skulls hahahah. Perfect night for you to cancel on meeeeeeeeeeee :)

Beauty (mostly tragic)

I write so much.
I write so much.
I write so much.

I write so much, I write so much, I write so much.

It's gotten me this far, why shouldn't I use it in my advantage to get me farther?
Because I enjoy other things too. I see beauty (mostly tragic) in everything and therefore consider all of the planet Earth I have been made miraculously formed to live upon, all to be a form of art. The way the leaves on the branches dance and the way the fields and the meadows sway. The sound of the windchime in perfect harmony with the thoughts in your head. The dramatic entrance of a black thunderstorm followed by again, a white sky. All of the colours, all of the inventions, all that is natural. All that is dying and is long dead, all that is yet to be born. I'm living my life now with all of my sensory organs and glands, opened upwards toward the skies and the space and the sun and the moon. And I am not dying any more because I have learned how to really feel.

Too, I am giddied with anything and everything that is Leonardo da Vinci and likewise, feel romanticized in everything that is him or has come from him. I know that if I could, I would already have a body covered in black and clay-colour, imprinted ink that should last me until my dying breath, of pictures and portraits and verses and all that is Leonardo da Vinci.

Isn't that romantic? That romanticized emotion and reason in passion for the diction that I chose to express such, is just exactly how the man makes me feel. And that is one of, if not the most precious and sacred things one human being, or any infintissimal living organism for that matter can give to someone or something else: a feeling.

I don't foresee myself ever feeling opposed to or in doubt of that statement, either. A feeling, a feeling, a feeling.

A feeling.
A feeling.
A feeling.

That's what we've all been waiting for our entire lives. The opportuinity to feel and not be afraid of feeling. Feeling, feeling, feeling.

Feeling the sun, feeling the touch, feeling the breath, the breath hot and short from another on your own skin, and feeling the breath slow and soothed floating in and out of your own lungs. Feeling the sweat, feeling the hotness behind the tearducts, feeling the love.

Feeling the love, feeling the love, feeling the love.

We're all dying, wasting away in the wait for a chance to really feel the love. THAT'S WHAT MAKES ME FEEL LOVED. Knowing that, at this very moment, there are 6 billion people out there, all the same decaying slowly and soundly under the sun and the moon, and each of them, waiting in both disbelief and conviction for the chance to feel you and me, and they are waiting to feel us feeling them too.

Society is Where You Go when You've Lost Your Voice

So I started writing this new piece that, (at least for right now), I feel fairly passionate about. Considerably passionate, I suppose I should say. Any way, of course it consists of both Love and Space, as those are all that I am made up of. Surprisingly, I am a bit tempted as well to post some excerpts from what I have so far written in this particular piece. Not surprisingly, I am tempted to post only for the simple pleasure in sharing with others something that I've done myself, and something that makes me happy. Why shouldn't I feel free to share such a feeling? Because more importantly, I would also rather gauge my own eye balls out than reveal or expose myself or any of my pieces on the internet for vultures and liars to see. Please, feel free to quote me on that. Literally, gauge my own eyes out. So, now I have several new, interesting and awesome things that I've written but HARDLY feel compelled to post on the open internet. I just want to be published already.

(I might also take a moment to ensure my hope to any one who should be reading this, to know that I am posting this for MYSELF and not for you. It has always been that way in most anything I do, and for that I am proud and feel good. I love you all the same, I just don't want you to confuse anything I might be writing on here as something that might be written intentionally to appeal to you, or others.)

I am talented you know, and I know one day I'm going to make it happen for myself but it gets so tiring having to wait. The wait however does increase anticipation for such, and I have always agreed that anticipation makes things more fun or enjoyable (or the same, painful and disappointing) upon deliverance of whatever it may be. But, waiting for something you are helplessly willing to devote your entire life to... That's a heavy horse to hold for awhile...

Atmosphere - Primer (Hidden Track) Reminds Me of You.

When I'm sad, I'm scared of never being happy again.
When I'm happy, I'm scared of always being sad again.
I can't win.

I'm throwing out a lot of words and pick me ups I used to say to you, I'm rearranging all the lines you used to use. I'm decorating for a new season of revenge 'cause a heart never broken is a secret giving in. So that's it, I'm giving in.

That's it, I'm giving in.

The Longest Day of the Year

We smoked Black clover cigars and pot while a few of us read aloud lines and passages of Whitman, while the remaining few of us sat and listened. We were puffing sugar sweetened poetic looking smoke clouds from our pipes, through our eyes.
It was midnight on an insignificant Monday night, or Tuesday morning rather. Insignificant, except for that particular night we had begun with poetry, verse, and smoke had been the very same night as the one belonging to the very longest day of the year.
It was both peculiar and nice that the longest day of the three hundred sixty five day calendar year should also claim its brilliancy and renown in that it too also provided for the most beautiful night.

Any way, that same night, after we were lifted and high off of our drugs of choice, (unanimously: poetry and pot), it was then a single file line that the five of us formed as we all traveled silently though swiftly towards the destination. All the while, a mass attempt at a hushed laughter. Our minds, youthful, untainted, and influenced.
Quietly then, we snuck inside the beautiful house. We each chose a spot to sit and sing. We watched a movie then, in the dark of the house, in the dark of the night, at an hour more than midnight. And we watched this movie on a whim, this wonderful film which conveyed precisely the articulated version of an enlightenment. My enlightenment. Now everyone elses, for this film had been made decades before that night we watched it. I didn't feel selfish, I felt involved. I felt excited that an articulation of such has now been spread to four more minds (being that one of us had already seen it).

(Inconcievable.)

The movie ended almost perfectly in it's promptness as he said it would. And then again, in hushed movements we all left the interior of that lovely home and went again to our earlier congregation spot outside. It was now nearly three and instead of heading home then as I might have ought to, of course I found it much more pleasurable and beneficial to the self to stay and indulge with the others the contents of one of the most fantastic films we had all just finished watching together.

That day I had a cup of tea, cheese and bread, and another cup of tea. Soothed and enthused goes the feeling of my heart beat; dancing around, beating, burning, bumping to and fro off the cells in my brain. My youthful, untainted, influenced brain. Who knew a little sugar, vanilla, and chamomile could ultimately create such a sensation?

But, a sensation of what, exactly? It wasn't the night of, it was the early morning after the longest day of the year that got me so involved.

People pay me in pity money. But I hate to spend it. I almost never spend it. I'm just, bad at spending it. Does that make me even more pitiful?


"And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe,
and then from hour to hour we rot and rot." As You Like It II~7 William Shakespeare

My preferred method of escape: flight.

Last night, I came home sick. I felt ordinary. I felt sick. Indulged in an uncomfortable slumber. By the twelfth hour, I couldn't take it anymore. That which we call "sleep". Ordinarily, I would feel secure in the safety which sleep provides. The excuse to dismiss yourself from the ordinary world. The planet Earth which we surmise to be our true existences. Yeah, right. In my dreams, I can kiss you away. Or kiss you back. I can brush my hair until you start to fall out of my curls. Sometimes, I can look into a mirror and see you. My reflection in you. What is a worldly existence, any way? That question means nothing to me. In my dreams, I am good at flying. The entire time I spend escaping consequence, both fair and undeserved... My preferred method of escape: flight. Some times I can time travel too. And by that, I mean, I can die. Usually, I am mindlessly convinced that death which is bestowed upon me is a final figure in a chain of events. Now, I am convinced it is an agreement. Death, an agreement. An agreement, a discovery. Death is only the beginning. I used to be so afraid to die. Now that's all I can think about.


The distance should weaken our voices, though strengthen our meanings. Though I'm not sure what effect the guilt or the indifference will have. You're making this really hard. But I'll take all the blame. Out of habit. Habitually that is, I am allowed the ability to forget your scent, your tone, your skin's hue. You've turned this whole love riot into a habitual ritual. I love, I die, I love, I die, I love, I die, I love, I give up. It's funny. How I don't find you funny anymore. I used to laugh out of bliss. Now my laugh is tainted with satisfaction. Is that what you wanted? Your leaving a thousand miles away and still satisfaction resonates in my bout of laughter? This is, exactly the final outcome we have worked for our entire six year quest. A laugh of satisfaction? You told me you hate that. Now I love it.