I have stumbled back upon this source of writing and chronicling life. I am going to attempt to post daily. Let’s see….
I found that happiness is the weirdest concept. Right now, it is 1:10 in the morning. It’s cold outside. I hate the cold. I have to wake up at 9 to get myself ready to attend a job that I can’t stand only to associate myself with a handful of people that I can’t stand. As of late, I find myself occupying my time floating around my own head. Asking myself who I am. Although I have yet to find a definitive answer, and I most likely never will, I think i’ve figured life out. Life is the biggest “whose dick is bigger” contest with somebody that you can’t stand. Life is when you spend more money on Christmas lights so that you’re neighbors house looks bare and yours looks like the North Pole. Life is the one kid that sat alone at lunch all through school because he was too awkward. So realistically, i’m 20 years old. I don’t really have much going for me. I took a semester off from school. I work a decent amount of hours for little pay. I was born to die the American Dream. But i’m happy.
Words scrawled catalog my memories through shattered pictures beating shallow hearts destroying selfless tendencies.
Destined for anything? Or nothing, like a bird locked in a cage.
Destined for anything? Or anyone, to make me feel sane.
My pen speaks words i’m afraid to say in a dim lit room I can barely stay in.
Homeless but home, that ship set sail when I found I can’t stand on my own.
Post with 2 notes
It was hard to see that day, or that week, or that month, or that season. Everyday I would place my fingers over my eyes to awake from a lackluster “sleep”, if you could call it that. I’ve been doing that as long as I could remember. A habit, my only one at that. I never knew for what reason, perhaps to drain out the concept of sleep for another twelve hours? Or maybe to hide from the situations I may have to face that day. Snow made a blanket over everything. The trees, my car, my life, my heart. It’s funny, you know. I always considered snow a metaphor. A metaphor for cowards, hiding from their problems. Under a wet and heavy blanket until the sun told him to go home. All I want is happiness, but even that is hiding.
Eleven pm. The pen clutched to the paper scrawled words he didn’t want to say. Fueled by coffee and hate. The bags under sea blue eyes were comparable to body bags. Each weighing 150 pounds. Underlined words explaining decisions, actions, and thoughts. A budding insomniac showing promise in nothing but a certainly doomed future. “Wouldn’t it be so wonderful?” he muttered under his breath “to have no care in the world” The utopia of a such promised land was so far away, yet so close. Reaching it alone felt unattainable. Signing checks with his self medicated prescription of espresso and Marlboro cigarette’s. The utopia, was home. Home was attainable. When the twenty two hour work day was complete. Signed. Designated. Filed. Categorized. To pack his briefcase and unknot his tie was heaven. Walking down the hallway to the elevator was even better, as he was that much closer to his dream. The elevator slowly crept down the 71 pit stops necessary before the parking garage. Arrival was imminent. To drive 45 minutes south to get into a house of people that love the idea of you, but don’t really know you. The house wasn’t a home. It was a hotel he went to every night. Is it worth it?
Post with 1 note
When flowers are all you’ve got left, and the petals all fall off. forward your “R.I.P’s” and memories straight to the cause of death. you say you’d give it all for one last breath? i’d pay that just to take it back. when the soils all dug up, and you’re histories all found out, you’ve made the grave yourself. i’m putting all my words in similes, hoping my far off dreams, are not too few and far between. like a vessel with a hole, my discontent sets sea, burn all the pictures of me, and bury me in memories. so when the flowers are beat up, stepped on, and torn, just remember, flowers only grow at home.
When flowers are all you’ve got left,
and the petals all fall off. forward your “R.I.P’s” and memories straight to the cause of death.
you say you’d give it all for one last breath? i’d pay that just to take it back.
when the soils all dug up, and you’re histories all found out, you’ve made the grave yourself.
i’m putting all my words in similes, hoping my far off dreams, are not too few and far between.
like a vessel with a hole, my discontent sets sea, burn all the pictures of me, and bury me in memories.
so when the flowers are beat up, stepped on, and torn, just remember, flowers only grow at home.
Post with 1 note
I’m tracing words in an unsure pen. faded black inscribed in a lined canvas plagued with thoughts. i’ll dub my paragraphs a memoriam to my state of mind. put it six feet under, pour water on it, and pray that it will grow. i’ll remain on the ground with my head to the sky. call it a false sense of security, or a skit i call my life. sign countless parcels of paper with words right from my heart. but when my heartbeat stops how long until you’ve forgot? every late night, drive to nowhere, or better yet, anywhere but here. “home” is just another four letter word, a synonym for “fuck” and “again” home is where the heart is. but my heart isn’t home. it wears a sign, reading “Vacancy” I was born to die alone.
you know, life is a weird thing. endless as it seems; the end is just around the corner. beautiful and atrocious. a gift and a curse. living life to the fullest is a saying and idealogy that can be constructed in several different ways. some are constantly out, partying, self medicating, hanging out, or getting in a car and driving nowhere until the gaslight turns on. is that living life to the fullest? what about a loner. do they feel that living life to the fullest is playing video games, burnt out on old weed they regret smoking out of a resin soaked pipe? i mean, it’s all a thought process. right? is one persons living anothers existing? if your only existing are you technically dead on the inside? everybody has a purpose. is a homeless person an omen to doing well in school and quickly finding a career with phenomenal job security instead of fucking around and having fun? is minimum wage a gateway drug to an enormous whose dick is bigger contest with your neighbor about who makes more, whose lawn is neater, whose kids are captains of some bullshit sports team and members of the national honor society. is that really going to help your kids succeed, or is it just going to enhance your ego. sheltering children from the harsh realities of the real world isn’t going to help them. the IRS won’t accept a letter from Princeton as payment. money doesn’t equal happiness. the prettiest people to the ugliest things. being ignorant of genocide, homelessness, and racism is the holocaust of this generation. put down your iphone, take off your ralph lauren hat and take off your lacoste polo. stop being a walking billboard for companies that pay korean children a nickel for labor. take a step out of your centrally air conditioned cookie cutter homes, breathe in the pollution riddled air and take a fucking stand. christ. /rant.