Vomit

1st person stories are hard to write on the day before your project is due. I hope this one doesn't make your opinion of me go down because I wrote it in approximately 10 minutes and I know I spelled that last word wrong but I'm too lazy to look up how to actually spell it so just bare with me. Bear with me? Oh well.

I was there also. Although you probably didn't see me because while the commotion was happening I was in a tree smoking a cigarette. Truth be told I kind of fell into the whole scenario. Earlier this year I went to that same tree and propped up a hammock on the top branches. I spend a lot of night in that hammock staring up into the zenith and letting all the stars become one giant piece of energy pulse down into my skin. Anyway, the group had gathered underneath my tree and as you well know, they were very noisy. How rude of them. I became startled immediately as if being hit with a ball in a dream. I damn near fell out of the tree. Instead I peered over the edge and saw the tops of hundreds of heads bob up and down like a sea. Unfortunately I though about the sea when I saw those people and as you know I am very bad with movement of that nature. So I began to fall ill. I felt my own face turn green. I had just eaten a burrito  and the chunks began to churn and bubble up my throat. I couldn't hold it in. I puked up my entire lunch onto the ground. So ya. That's the story of how I threw up on you. I'm very sorry.

My Frozen Flumes

This poem is about time and a grandfather clock. Time goes by weirdly. I think the best way to describe it is with a quote from Albert Einstein. "Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute and it feels like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour and it seems like a minute. THAT'S relativity."


Grandfather looked through me and flashed a toothy grin
Time worn cheeks flushed red and full of sin
As his booted left foot kicked dust scattering out the way
I shifted my vision towards the sun's last ray
Grandfather took another step away from me
I was caught in the amber of time, and I didn't see
Footsteps sent melodic ticks that shook my mind
But my eyes couldn't hear, and my ears went blind
Grandfather's vast wrinkled hand twisted the door knob around
My whole attention though was on the patterned ground
All that was left of my body was a bag of broken bones
But my soul, rhythmically, perpetually droned
The old man's knees wobbled as he shoved the door
Dirt brown, from all the hands that had touched before
Hinges screamed at themselves, him and I
Finally, my eyes found themselves racing up high
My ice bleached veins decided to drip
Again. Again. Again. I slip
Grandfather's left foot was the final piece I saw
Before the door slammed
Startled
I thaw

Dawn Breaks the Thought

This poem is about a bed. It doesn't sound like it but really listen to the words. Dreams and stuff. Beds are sad I found out after writing this. Poor guys.

It gets frosty out
I'm always wearing warm clothing
Only at night your warm breath whispers to me
I lay down during the day
All day
Too long have I dwelt on past occurrences
Past loves
Past dreams
Your dreams
That I hear when you're unable
With me, your heart and mind opens
Opens towards me
And I listen to the sound of purity
But it ends faster than it starts
Wistfully, your eyes pop open
And tread away to reality
Your body follows
And slowly seeps away
I lay during the day
All day

This poem was written in Neruda's style. This may be one of my own favorite poems that I've written. It's so simple but elegant and the descriptions really fit how I see my favorite beverage.


Crystal green shells
Cold
Alone
A weary life
Homes of discontent
With pain
Plucked from
Death
With leathered hands
Grit plaguing
Thin cracks
And placed
Among brothers
In furnaces of
Light
Love
And life
The pop of
Depression
Sparks their
Winter outfits
Into warmth
A womb
Until darkness and fire
Once again
Crusts the layers
And aromatic
Essences
Make cream
Out of
Emotion
Granite cobbles
Extracted into geysers
Of heat
Dirt lifted from
The pure bodies
Of innocence
And integrity
Crushed cleanly
And flatly into
Black
Bloody
Water

Projections

We had to write a play piece in class. Mine is not finished but I enjoyed working on it. The story is pretty cliche but I don't care because I enjoy the story. I figure that I will finish the play later on. It will be much longer than expected though so don't rely on that getting finished. 

CAST OF CHARACTERS

RAINN………………………………………………………a man suffering from schizophrenia, mid twenties, attractive but has dark, tired eyes.

JENN………………………………………………………...one of Rainn’s best friends from childhood. She doesn’t know about his schizophrenia.

AUDITORY HALLUCINATIONS…………………………these are sounds and voices that Rainn hears even though they are not real. He cannot distinguish between reality and his subconscious quibble.

TIME:   Dusk- Some time in the 90’s

SETTING: The sun has set over the evergreen treetops in a suburb outside of Seattle. Though it is dark there is a full moon that sits just on top of the trees. It is bright and sends down luminous rays across the landscape, creating ominous shadows. It is hard to distinguish objects. The background moves as if with the sway of a breeze but the movement does not occur in patterns but instead is a torrent of random movements.

Projections

Act

SCENE 1-

RAINN sits on his knees overlooking the swaying forest. He looks tired and confused as if a ghost has appeared. He reaches his hands up to his face to examine them. He becomes startled by something and pulls them down quickly and continues to stare off into the forest. Just then Jenn appears from the cityscape behind and puts her hand on his shoulder. This startles Rainn and he jumps up and turns around.

RAINN. What? He realizes that it is Jenn and the fear in his eyes dissipates. He sits back down not facing her.

JENN. Come on Rainn, you’ve got to come back home. It’s getting late.

RAINN. Looking distraught, Rainn slowly puts his head so that he is facing the ground. I just can’t. Something is happening to me. I can hear things. There are people arguing and when I turn to hear them. Rainn turns his head to look at Jenn. His eyes are wide and full of despair and fear. He pauses on the words for a moment as if anticipating the voices to appear. When I turn to see the source of them they just aren’t there.

JENN. She stares deep into his eyes, searching for a source of what he talks about. The silence grows uncomfortable and she can’t find anything in his eyes but a pleading. Tell me more. W-what is going on? What do you think the voices are?

RAINN. I don’t know. Sometimes I get the feeling that someone’s watching me and plotting against me. I know it’s irrational and that’s what makes it so scary. There is no logic behind the feeling but it’s real. It’s more real than most things now a days.

JENN. What do you mean by that?

RAINN. I mean we go to university and believe that we’re becoming smarter in the process but we sleep walk through each day and go to sleep feeling the illusion of education, but it’s not real. It’s hypnotism. These voices scare me but they make me feel something. They tell me things, interesting things. A chilly wind blows through the trees and hits Jenn and Rainn. The wind blows Jenn in the face and makes her squint. The wind hits Rainn from behind and his hair swirls wildly around. From the wind a slight whisper is heard. Rainn’s eyes squint in concentration. Slowly the whispers become hearable. The lights dim and a spotlight makes only Rainn visible.

The whispers are two separate people talking; a man and a woman. They speak in dialogue to each other.

AUDITORY HALLUCINATION 1. He doesn’t understand the gravity of this situation.

AUDITORY HALLUCINATION 2. I know. He lacks what we have. He’s learning though.

RAINN. His eyes are clenched tight to hear the voices. I can hear you! What do you want me to do? Who are you?

AH1. Questions, questions, questions. All he does is ask. He arrives at no destination. His life is a trip on an infinite road.

AH2. He should stay at home. He shouldn’t trust anyone. They’ll get in the way of his pilgrimage.

RAINN. Don’t talk like I’m not here. What are you talking about? Who can’t I trust?

AH2. The water is black death and the food is infested with worms and maggots that will infect him.

AH1. Yes, he shouldn’t eat anymore. A fast shall occur from this day forward.

RAINN. What poisoned my food? Who can’t I trust? What’s happening?

The voices slowly fade into gibberish and backwards-unintelligible talk. The lights slowly return to normal and Jenn is standing a few feet behind Jenn with a look of horror on her face. Rainn rubs his eyes feverishly and contorts his face to wash it of convolution.

RAINN. See. They know things. He turns and begins to pace. He whispers to himself quickly. I can’t be eating, no more school. I’ll just stay at home. Yes that’s good, I’ll just read and drink water. Wait, no I can’t be doing that. I’ll read and just let the voices tell me. I don’t need to worry.

JENN. Rainn? I didn’t hear anything. Please Rainn. He continues to pace as if he can’t hear her. RAINN! The loud noise pulls Rainn out of his hallucination. He turns quickly to look at Jenn as if it’s the first time that he’s seen her.

RAINN. What?

JENN. What’s happening to you? Who are you talking to?

RAINN. Questions, questions, questions. They tell me not to ask questions and you’re standing here asking me all these questions. What do you want?

JENN. Rainn, come on. Come here. Jenn walks towards Rainn and puts her hand on his neck. He flinches extraordinarily.

You’re okay. Just calm down. Let’s walk back to the house. You’ll feel better there.

RAINN. I just don’t know what’s going on.

JENN’s mother’s voice is heard calling from outside the stage. The lights dim and no one is seen

JENN’S MOM. Honey, come here it’s getting to be late. The lights come back on and just JENN is standing in place.

JENN. Oh come on mom, just a couple more minutes, we’re just playing.

JENN takes a doll from her pocket of a boy and begins to sing and dance with it off the stage. Lights cut off.

NOTE: The reason it has a terrible ending is because if I were to continue with the story it would be much longer than what is reasonable for a four day long assignment. Maybe I will continue with what I had in mind later. But this will do for now.

Why Aren't We Poets?

Me and my friend Chris Grove wrote this little ditty while sitting together at a table typing. We actually have photographic evidence of this encounter. It is a beautiful picture. This piece says a lot about the world. "Why isn't there any inspiration in the world!!" A man screamed while glaring at his computer. Through the window behind him the sun's rays blew over the clouds and created a portrait of heaven in the clouds. "Because you're not looking you idiot!" Said the clouds.

 

"Why aren't we poets?" Chris said exuberantly as they stood atop the glacier. The sunlight stared at the glassy exterior of the ice and reflected sunlight into the retinas of their eyes. They felt nothing. "I'm cold," said Jake. Chris looked on knowingly. As the two footsteps created patterns within the plush front of the snowy peak, the sleek canvas created a portrait of their lack of life; cold and emotionless. "What is that keeps the moon upright?" Chris expected no answer. As the question fluttered out of his lips though, the moons body began rumbling and breaking. Thick, glowing goop spilled out of the moons interior out to the white opaqueness of the snow creating a painting that would make Picasso cry. "Why aren't we poets?" Chris said exuberantly.

Why Consciousness Defies Reality

I thought that I wouldn't be that good at writing a love poem. It actually turned out that this was one of my more heartfelt poems. I guess I'm just a loving guy. By the way I learned the word salitter from the author Cormac Mccarthy. It's an ancient word that is not in use anymore. It means the essence of God. Pretty cool. It worked well in this poem. Enjoy.


When laying in the grass
The salitter from the mud
Seeps deep into your veins
And forms pools of tranquility within
They pump from your heart
Caressing your body
With their joy
The treetops crown you
With gold jewels of light
Climbing oaks
The branch is your mare
It forms to your liking
For all it wants
Is to hold you, like I do
When crying
Pure tears of ambrosia
Paint your face with emotion
And grace your skin
Making you more beautiful
Than the breath of the wind
But the wind brings back senses
A love fresh and blind
I will embrace you forever
If only in my mind

He's my friend.

Rancor personified. What would that mean person say? What would he be like? In this piece I try to answer that question. Truthfully, it was not that tough. Rancor is not too hard of a person to understand, because I'm angry a lot. 


Rancor doesn't like you. He probably never will. He won't even pretend but when he does his face becomes so red you might wish yourself wishing to pick it like a red apple on a shivering tree. His closet is filled with alarm clocks. And his trash bin? It's filled with broken alarm clocks. Every morning his shower spills magma on his always aching body as if the pipes are directly linked to a pluton 50 miles beneath the Earth. Speaking of the interior, Rancor wishes he could live below and away from everyone else, though if this wish were to come true he would find reason to pick a fight with dirt. Rancor's favorite restaurant is in old miner towns where his personality can be fueled by whiskey and pool sticks and where late means never and where people persist in being mean. Rancor, in his own words, would tell you as he turned his back, "I hate all you goddamn people." His voice sandpaper and a salted wound.

Hi you?

What makes comedy? For me, in my own writing, it's usually absurdity and twists. This writing will probably not be funny to you. I know this because it's not that funny to me either. I guess that's what makes it funny.


I will try to be witty with a short haiku.
The day broke through time.
The abstract layers became.
Pictures of just shapes.
See? I write stuff like that and I have no idea what it means. It sounds good though. If you hadn't of known that this was supposed to be a funny piece then I guarantee you that you would have thought I was some sort of genius for writing such a beautiful piece like that. You might wonder to yourself, "What does that savant mean by those perfectly chosen words?"
You would be very sad to find out that literally everything I write is a serendipitous mess. I have a very good skill at becoming lucky when it comes to choosing sentences and words that flow and create vivid hipstery imagery that makes people wonder about the knowledge that I hold that they do not. My sentences are too wordy and contain too many ideas. But they are seen as smart because they're illogical. It's funny that the stuff that doesn't make sense comes off as the most amazing. Louis Carrol writes a book about a little girl falling in a hole and entering a LSD induced coma world. Louis Carrol was a drug addict. People think Alice in Wonderland is some fantastic metaphor for some B.S political scenario. It's not. Louis was most likely just high one day and sat down and smashed his head against his oak desk a few times until he could pick up his pencil and write down the colors seen with his concussed eyes. Basically that's what I do when I write. Right now the tv is on pause and there is a crowd of fat americans screaming for American Ninja Warrior contestants. That's pretty funny. Yet most of the time that same image will be on the tv as I write serious pieces that give off strong hints of emotional distress within my heart. Don't worry about me though, because as I write these melancholy passages my mind is fixated on the fat women with the gaping mouth yelling something obscene. That's funny. The weird thing is I looked at the haiku I wrote just now and I'm kind of struck at its creativeness. It still has no meaning but you could place meaning on it. For example, look at the third line. Pictures of just shapes. That's all this writing is. Shapes. It shouldn't have so much meaning. You can place meaning on it though so don't fret. I guess those political scenarios and conspiracies about Louis Caroll were correct in some absurd way. The world is absurd though so really, who gives a shit?

6 word story

A short story requires a a short description. This story is easy to read and says a lot. But also poses all sorts of questions. I like it. I don't care if you don't.

When he died he woke up.

Mr. Linden's Library

 Books are amazing objects. In the simplest form they are a binded bundle of hundreds of pieces of paper. Printed on them is a random jumble of 26 letters, and in certain orders these letters create different worlds and feelings in our souls that fill us with rapture. All of this emotion on a piece of bark. This story is about books, but a book made in the bowels of some satanic figure. There is a lot more that needs to come from this story but what I wrote here is the first chapter or so. I hope to finish the story at some point in the future.

            The mysteries contained inside the labor of words hold values and terrors of which human beings have little understanding. Each letter comes through tiny cables of subconsciousness and in the ink flows the personality and traits of the author. At many times those pages hold love and a plush heartful of grace. Yet when an author's thoughts reverborate against his skull and slowly become bruised and void of innate goodness, an evil shoots from the pen and poses as an inno;cent leather-bound novel. These books sit, juxtaposed within the same bookshelfs as all other authors. They pace and plot in their seats and anticipate the moist hands of an innocent soul to fill with smoke and oil.
           No mind can escaope this form of torture that comes disguised in layers of knowledge and pride. When each malevolent object hides in the nooks throughout a brain, corruption supersedes understanding and on eis left looking at life and others as not fellow beings, but as gratuitous nonsense, seeking blood like a vampire, bent on the fear of himself.
           Mr. Linden's library held a novel of which few mortals had heard of. The story did not pass of its existence because each man who knew, did not wish to know. It stood tall and proud upon the highest shelf in the basement of the library. Nobody entered the basement and moisture from the pains of nonexistence molded every porous piece of paper and bleeding word in each book.The novel of which this story is about did not mold or accumulate barnacles of age. It prospered under these conditions and enjoyed its stay in the musty dark cavern.
           Nothing was known about the author who created the book. The few scholars who knew of its existence became infatuated with the implications of its power, and they fell in love with the idea. Its power mutiplied within the imagination of each man. It rose and its grandiousness took up the place of food and drink and life. Slowly, the mere possibility of the book deteriorated the men's minds. Two commited suicide. Two now reside in the mental hospital near London. And one man forever searchedd fort he book of immense power. One day, two years ago, this man, John Linden, found the book in the one place he did not expect it to be. His own grandfather's study and library of which he spent much of his childhood playing ghost and other children's games. He had little knowledge at the time that soon, in his later years he would still be playing in a game of ghosts.
          John Linden III sat in the backseat of his father's car, peering out of the rolled down window. It was nightime and the trees swelled and died with each passing breeze like a million heaving men. John turned his head forward and saw the front mirror of the car that captured his father's face. The moon hung low on this night and shaded all that stayed within its grasp. Because of this, John's father's eyes appeared sunken and lifeless within his scruffy features. From the gaping voids, icy water fell. It was murky and sparkling when refracted with the light from the moon. John looked away quickly. It was too much to deal with his father's pain at this present moment. John felt guilty, for deep inside himself he knew that his grandfather's death should come as a great blow to his feeling, but nothing sad came out of his slate-like soul. He continued to stare out of the window and the trees continued to breath.

Author Bio?

How do you start off an author bio? I suppose I should start with a list of activities I enjoy. I like writing, though that should be obvious by the implications of creating an author's bio in the first place. I like reading. That's also obvious. My favorite author is John Steinbeck or Kurt Vonnegut. I haven't read much of the latter but from the two books I have read, Slaughter-house 5 and Galapagos, I can tell that all other books will be enjoyed. Another one of the activities that I enjoy is listening to and discovering music. When I sit at my computer and scour the internet for new bands I feel like a archeologist with a tiny brush, sweeping at the bones of a giant. I don't do this for the pleasure of finding obscure music and receiving the ridiculous title of hipster that comes along with it. But I do it for the pleasure of discovery and supporting an artist who has not made it big but who holds more artistry in their urine and feces than most other modern billboard artists have in their entire bodies today (Do not think I don't like a lot of the mainstream music, I do). My favorite band is Modest Mouse who actually went through much of the same process that I have just described. They started out very obscure; creating call to dial songs in the lead singer's kitchen. In 1997 they released one of the most critically acclaimed albums of the 90's entitled The Lonesome Crowded West. Their next album was a major label debut called The Moon and Antarctica. This album one ups everything else that the band had done before. All the sounds are richer and deeper and the emotions are more pungent and realistic. The next album featured the song Float On which catapulted the band onto the mainstream charts and ever since their fame has ceased to diminish. Many people state that the next two albums were a huge drop from all their previous, but I disagree. I think that the next two albums continue to deliver the lead singer and songwriter, Isaac Brock's, style. Now I have gotten off track, but I believe that tangent was a good description of who I am as a person. My interests truly define me and i'm passionate about them. Lately, i've been reading a lot of philosophy, and a lot of it goes by my head and I can just feel the essence of some genius flow through my brain. But sometimes a passage or description just clicks in my head and that makes everything else worth it. One of those ideas is the idea of empiricism, which is the idea that all knowledge and thought comes from the senses and if there were to be a senseless human with all the capabilities of consciousness then even so that human would not have individual conscious thought. I can definitely understand that thinking and I don't think it's truly correct of me to put down philosophers like Locke and Hume, but I just find it hard to agree. I think more in terms of the over soul which was described in an essay by Ralph Waldo Emerson. This is a transcendentalist idea and if described correctly can counteract empiricist truth. Emerson states that all human beings have a soul that is part of a large celestial body of other souls. Each individual soul makes a human being, yet when all these souls are connected to form the over soul that can be a description for God. So if believing in this theory then one can conclude that we are all connected to God or some form above us, whatever you want to call it. This makes it hard for me to believe in the idea that our senses are the source of all thought. How can this theory describe absurdism. There has to be some sort of transcendentalist ideology that oversees everything. Well, just realized I went on another tangent. This is a really bad author's bio. Oh well, it's not like anyone is going to read this anyway. I play lacrosse and don't see the need for money in the universe. And a little tip, when things seem to get too complicated just remember that you're an organic machine flying through the air at unbelievable speeds on a rock. Puts things into perspective a bit. Except I always say that then deny myself because I know that we as humans are the most important objects in the entire universe. I mean, I have to believe that or else what's the point?

Double-Helix

We were supposed to write about a memory. It was supposed to be a memoir of sorts. Unfortunately, I think memoirs are very contrived and come from a place that I don't like to write from. So, as I sat down in my chair to write I thought about what would make a memoir that fit my personal integrity. I closed my eyes and a memory appeared as always. I saw a swirling DNA with my classmates climbing on it. The backdrop was set but I couldn't locate the source of the emotion, so I created one and began to write this.


         I stand with my feet pointed towards the spiraling DNA play item. The children infesting it crawl over it like slugs. They are beautiful, dirty and perfect in every way. The teachers surround us and their eyes are etched black with longing for what they watch. I turn towards the beached whale on the other side of the cement. He is infested with maggots and parasites and these parasites are my classmates. They have smiles cut into their faces and they slide and run and make muscles pull muscles until soreness dilapidates their bodies. I want nothing more than to join them on the adventure of early life, but I can't make myself. It is too meaningless. So I walk towards the cool glass doors that lead into the museum. Maybe I can find some sort of meaning inside the walls of history.
        I walk in and instantly I am grateful for my decision because the air is cool and my peers are no where to be found. But lab professors press down the hallways and through spectacles, stare off into the white voids of infinite scientific hypothesis. Are they any different from the children playing upon the DNA?
        I figure these learned professors seek the same broad meanings as the children. All they want are answers. The difference is growth. Growth through hair loss and belly fat bloating the seekers, and growth through loss of creativeness and growth through death. They stare into mirrors and see images of their parents. At the bottom of everything they are the same.
        I walk towards an exhibit for cavemen. I read the column that tells of their history and a line stands out to me.
        "The australopithecus brains lacked the capacity for rational though. They relied on instinct to gather food and survive."
        What a way to live. Human brains have swollen too big, and the torrential thoughts convolute themselves around singular ideas. I think the same things as every single person surrounding me. Their experience is the exact same as mine. If this were to be not true then everyone would have written a book by now. Because of this stark reality, humans rely on the labor of others to solve problems for them, and they grow unhealthy in the process. This only works toward disrupting our uniqueness.
         The universe, I realize standing in this spot, is simply an event horizon of which each individual consciousness is hurling towards at terminal velocity. As we get ever nearer to the horizon the personas of all of us mesh together and entwine and we lose our individuality and quickly we are lost in the lack of physical imagining.
         I walk back outside and continue to stare at the DNA and the children who climb and play endlessly.

A Piece of Short Writing

This is descriptive writing. I'm reading A Clockwork Orange so obviously this is where the majority of my ideas are coming from. I wanted this pieces to accomplish anger and I believe it did this very well. If I had more time to revise this piece then I would most likely just add more to it. It would have been longer and more descriptive. But I guess that's how everything is.

Like oranges in a vineyard, we are all the same. We move like clockwork with brains that make us seem like individuals. The gears and oiled parts are pieces of the orange sleek with sticky juice. The tree is of our family and connected we all remain. Choice comes out of the false belief of identity. Predestination seems right from what I say, but it is also untrue. It implies there is a end and a destination for us to travel to and remain, but there is no destination. The road of life leads to a winter of falling to the cold ground, and letting the dirt and rock sip our juice, our carbon into its interior. The juice is then transferred to a seed and that seed grows another orange with the same capabilites and thoughts as all the other oranges except with a different time and different clothes and different styles and different ways of speaking and different ways of making the clockwork move for eighty years, but at the end of all of it, the clockwork remains the same and the same juice creates the gears movement. Because as a fruit, the seeds are inside ourselves. Click click click.

After I fell asleep and before I dreamt

The quiet is louder than what I remember. It's like an ocean contained inside of my head. All of the winds and crashes of salty waves and broken oars. All of the sounds of desperation and loneliness. The frailties of lost treasure and decrepit ships, and all the sunlight and starlight reflected through the glass, breaking the barriers and refracting into eachother side by side, creating light and a darkness together. This was the color of the atmosphere here. It was gray and disillusioning. Not the gray from Earth

Liquid tin, silver and

            

I wrote this in class in a sitting. Don't really know how or why it came out the way it did. It's a series of thoughts that have some meaning when placed together. Obviously it's someone on the edge of sanity, who has some problems.

            The two stood face to face.

             I can't look into the eyes. Some prevention, some lack of knowing makes me fall ill with despair. My hands rest on the dirty marble counter on either side of my body. My back, arching, bending to get close, feels near breaking. I lift my head upwards and sweat drips in a puddle near the sink next to broken syringes. Without the gaze on me, my arms feel like tracks for a train. I imagine whole families of people getting on the steam engine, and they are excited to go on holiday. The tracks on my arms though are frail and can't support metal machines for much longer. I imagine the train falling into deep pits where pain and death linger to catch. I'm one of the passengers and I like to look out the window at the pretty trees.

             I'll guess that my equal, opposite image imagines the same. He is a lunatic though. He wishes for that train to take him, and i'm scared of him and what he can do to me.

             Everything vibrates with pulses. It's noticeable when feeling this way that I do. The vibrations are individual seconds in time, and each one is a separate universe; unique, and distinct in everyway from those adjacent to it. I could diminish my self from one of the moments but it will all be the same. Just pulses. They will go on without me, and they will go on without my friend.

             The light is bright. It reminds me of birth. I don't remember my birth but I imagine what it was like. It must have been bloody and innocent. Maybe it's fitting for this moment here when the carpet sinks and I become trapped in a cave of shag with my friend. In a few moments liberation will be possible I can only hope.

             This cave is quite deep. Maybe I can find the train wreck soon. Maybe there are some survivors, though I doubt it. The people in it were shaken too much. I know how it feels. The front window of the metal tube probably shattered and injected the floor with tumbling bodies. It's near impossible to juke out inevitability. That is, if the events are already set in motion, as I can prove it's true in this scenario.

              Why does my friend smile at me? Does he know something I don't? No, he can't. We are equals. His problems are my problems. They hit me deeper though.

              His smile is bigger than mine has ever been. 

              "Stop smiling you fake, frail --"

              Who said that? I'm startled. Did he say that or I?

              I take my godamn fist and smash it against glass. Thick puddles fall on the shards all around my body. I look at my knuckles. The cuts and wounds feel good. Maybe the train is arriving sooner than excpected. 

              

List

I don't really remember the circumstances that were upon me when I wrote this, but it seems as if I was in a convoluted state. It's interesting to read a piece of work that I know for fact that I created but have no account of when or why. It gives it a mysterious quality like the emotion is hidden behind smoke. Anyway, I do like this poem because it's different. I'm not quite sure if the list is good or a bad thing and I truly don't think that's the point. If i'm reading myself correctly, I believe that the list is anything that we create to protect our self righteousness. In that sense it's bad but everyone needs something of that nature.

The negativity slowly creeped itself into her mind.
The illuminatino of the pain bore straight outward,
and her eyes were two way mirrors.
No one could see in.
So taking to the shadows, she compiled a list.
A list of negative things that made her stronger.
Because as it was, the melacholia was insie her,
and a part of her, so she used it.
As the list grew, her own pains dwindled.
The empty eyes became mirrors,
reflectors, indicating the beauty in others.
The list became decrepit
not only because of weariness
but because of human stained fingers,
dirtying it with their wicked obscenities.
As the list grew older, her life seemed to become longer.
She eradicated what, for so long, had been the objects of affection.
The negativity in the majority jumped at the list.
It could fester there and plague others.
She stamped it out in the gutter were it belonged,
believeing, without a doubt, misery was gone.

I wanna go home right now

see title.

I wish my hands were my feet

              I pretty much always wish my hands were my feet. Wouldn't that be fantastic? If my hands were my feet then work would be easy. Who wouldn't want to write with their feet. Also since my feet would be on my arms then I could wear shoes near my face. Instead of scratching my face with my dirty fingernails I could just kick my itches. It would work much faster.
              Anyway, unfortunately my feet are on my legs so i guess that's one of my biggest problems in life. I only have two hands and they pretty much do the job. Sometimes, though, my fingernails fall off and land on the ground and I can't find them again. Then I have to wait for over six years for them to grow back.