farewell.

If I joined our respected army to be a man...would you miss me?

If I fucked every other girl in town, metaphorically with proper usage of words...would you become jealous?

If you found another person willing to devote their life to you....wait, another person?

That's such fucking bullshit.

We fill the barrel as much as we possibly can.

Then,

together,

the fish get shot the fuck up.

Master of your game with a voice of pure sacrilege, I hope not to approach game over.

I want your mouth on mine, and I know you feel it too.

Not naive nor pathetic, but longing to win your frosted fucking soul.

the gears are grinding and I'm breaking down.

one screw loose, the others are all missing.

I still don't know why.

maybe when i'm dead.

ain't it obvious baby girl?

weeded out and stressed out was the poor young man. felt as old as the air in the sky, the height of the volcano's peak, as oldest as the deepest aquatic trench. through thick and through thin the Melvins pounded and smashed and thudded the drummers of his ears. in the door walks the lanky fellow friend. knowing the same delivered feeling from the same exact messenger. well, perhaps not exactly the same feeling. "a circumstantial difference was the problem," he spoke to a peer. "Nothing negative, just slow and painstaking circumstantial problems." nothing he could do but stay positive, seeing as how it made them both smile at each other. thee night went on and both were growing weary of the parading poet. together they cycled off into the lowly animated Orlando metropolis lights. awkwardly and drunkenly posed on the department store ninety nine dollar and ninety nine cent futon couches. "i'm not making any sense right now and I apologize for saying these things." "please just don't tell me your plans, i am going to leave now." after the brief cycle home, we exchanged our farewells in the form of a glue-bodied embrace. here comes the difficult part. the going away. oh so fucking tragic romance generic bullshit it seems. "I'm outta this place, and to do something awesome, and positive, for anyone around me. To anyone who can relate. I will be around like minded people with the same ambitions of progression and happiness. These aren't my plans, this is what will happen. Struggles here, there, and everywhere imaginable will tear us to shreds of fiber. Beat us sideways. Don't put faith in me. I'll be here though. Mean it." One of the best professors I ever had, Dr. Alexander, began his opening moments of class with a simple, but concisely profound question, "What is the good life?". Right now, at this very moment, my good life is splendid due to the fact the Dinosaur Jr. is my background muse. Dr. Alexander. Picture Cleveland, from Family guy, as a real, live human. The one difference being the baritone-romantic-wise-Barry White voice of the professor. This provided a difficult challenge in the class and required me to fight the "fuck school" nap due to the professor's monotonous lull. All irrelevant details excluded, the point is my path to seeking the good life. For me, it is not one of religion, or faith. Both have failed me, numerous times. For me, the good life is about being happy. Super fucking simple. I feel as if I have too much to say, a pressure ready to cave in and ready to implode...at the brink of something great for the exterior...and the interior. A life layed out as an essay on the way life should be laid out. Deceivers to become are the new generation of politicians, painters, doctors, heretics, government officials, writers, athletes, lobbyists, teachers, housewives, musicians, carpenters, thinkers, sinners, preachers, clerics, scum, poison...deceivers with one ending and one path only. So how different are you and me? How alike are we? I think we'd be perfect together, the future for this sounds much better.

bapz

you shouldn't look at me that way.

i don't believe in peace.

that stare doesn't make sense.

where could you have possibly found the vision that you possess?

a walking compass is what i am,

your eyes happen to be a world with no poles.

no guidance for me this time.

it is just us, we have ourselves to find.

beautiful is what you are to me.

life is what we are together.

no need for the shakes tonight.

let's dream together and live our lives.

rain.

with every bit of sincerity i'm pleading guilty to the slaughter of my own son. heretic in my mind. panic in your chest. knife in your neck. rain scream upon me. as you stain my mind. blood fucking red.

match.

i'm going to die.

with or without you.

[untitled]

it's everywhere

the inspiration is in everything at this specific moment

would be easier if i were able to connect this to something.

maybe music

perhaps adoration

maybe pain

whether she's doing this to me or not

i am inspired

K.K.H.

hammer on my liver

razors in my head

more difficult than certain death

are the strings a ghost can pull.

snap the throat

crackle consumes my spine

pop goes the mighty tongue.

she's got a fiery mind 

and glacial eyes.

this is a war.

excuse me soldier, all honorably decorated with your lethal blue eyes...

...please remove the bullets from my head.
get the explosives out of my chest.

sleep.

slumbertime my love.
together by 23.
pillows shared through our wonder years.
as the reception finish, three loud cheers.
I love(d) you.

white rice rainstorms shining today.
the groom and wife's smile are there to stay.
slumbertime my love.

it's real.

sometimes I wear this hat on my head.
but most the time my hair just looks greasy.
sometimes I wear briefs.
but most the time I hang loose.

sometimes I forget where I am.
sometimes I forget what I want to do in life.
but all of the time, I know I love this lady.

in the town.

here you'll find self imposed suicide hookers.
born again faith addicts, only to falter to their coke snorting cock-sucking ways.

here you'll find the freshest of the crop.
the new and willing, the eager and naively innocent...waiting to be harvested amongst a field of crows nests and ravens.

this is the same place you will find a washed up old bum with something to prove.
an attitude to further his current social stereotype, a pungent waste of oxygen.

you will also be so lucky to find the genuine young fellow, who has yet to get the point.
he will repeat, repeat, repeat his selfish actions.

you can also find places to shit.
only to find that these are the same places you frequently dine.

in the town you will find faggots, niggers, hippies, honkeys, tweekers, dropouts, lawyers and scum...whores and pigs. Rats, has-beens, pussies and docs...animals amongst the zoo in town.

failure to think on my own behalf has kept me here.
goodbye catalyst.

this is the town I live in.
you we're once a part of it too.

swig.

Shots on me!
Shots of this so called life.
Maybe it looks like Midori, green like the tropical fruits and trees.
Perhaps the shot looks like some blood red concoction of Raspberry pucker, sweet, but violent red vomit will follow.

I don't know where I'm going with these descriptions of fairytale cocktails, maybe in the direction of life being like different drinks. Eventually, you'll end up on the floor either vomiting, choking on blood, or quivering with a bodyfull of heartache and mind-wrenching thoughts.

Shit happens.
I'll pick up my six string in a time of need.
And I will write about the girl I truly love, so none of the above happens to me.

showtime.

Over the chatty crowd and between songs, even over the punk rock feedback coming from the vintage amps, I will sing a song to you.

I'm going to sing a song about you.
Everyone in the room will know who I'm talking about...because...before the song starts, I will stare you right in your beautiful blues, and shout, "This one is for you my love."
Everyone in the room will know exactly who I am talking about.

You are most beautiful and will be the brightest shining star in a galaxy full of burnouts and village whores. It will be our night to shine brighter than any individual in that room.

Let's not implode.

composer.

So none of this is coming as easy as I thought it would. I keeping strumming the wrong notes, singing in the wrong key, strumming the wrong rhythm...playing what's already been played. I'm singing what's already been said, simply trying to express how I feel. When it all comes together, it's the tune of my everyday life. The same beat in my footsteps, the same harmonies in my frequent interactions with people, the same catchy melodies you fight so hard not to keep stuck in your head...I keep writing songs with the same dissonance as with my day to day decision making. Try not to struggle with making sure people know what you're really trying to say. Soon enough, I will shatter this acoustic, splinter my hand to hell...and ultimately pay the mother fucker back for the years of blisters, the perpetual letdowns, and god awful messages the instrument has given off. In all actuality, I'm pissed at myself for the way the songs are coming out.

The music we make is only as great as the maker of said music can be.
The life we live is only as great as the person in control of said life.
I can't make pretty music.
I can't live a happy life.

drown.

Tonight I will find a place to drown.
I'm packing my bags, purchasing a one way ticket to an ocean of relief.
At the bottom is where I will rest, never to see this place again.
If I land in a city, the fellow drowned will speak, "...and like the drifter I was born to be, I left for something better. In these city lights, I will hang my noose up high, for all the town to see. This is the only way, to get anyone to look up to me." It would be no surprise to find a city under the sea, full of patrons undistinguishable from you and me. They got here before us, only to think/say the same things we may've once felt. To fight and fuck the same people. Someone's been there, done that...we're all just too late to our own lifetime.