viewer disgression is advised

you think you're immune,
that somehow you're the exception.
maybe in your eyes you don't count
in the roll call of filth that crowds this planet
but in mine, you do.
don't take it personally, though.
no one is immune.

ya i'm curt.

hey yo
back from the promised land.
guh i hate it here.


southern interior

gone gone gone.
i am the little runaway.

last night in my sleep i drew a dripping sun on my wall.
and why, i cannot recall




What is reality? What is truth? We all have truths, are mine the same as yours? Everyone has a different perception of reality, to one my reality could be “amusing lies” though it is the truth in my eyes. Some say reality was meant to be embellished, otherwise no one will listen. We're all caught up in our own realities, believing we hold supremacy. No one will give a second thought to a story of banal existence. Though truth is stranger than fiction, it's not to say it's always more compelling.
When I was younger I was stung on the lip by a bee. I cried for hours until my father told me something to abate my tears. “You know, bees often circle the mouth of a story teller,” he told me in that sort of whisper that always drew me in, “You might have a gift, you never know…” My father had succeeded in stemming my tears but little did he know he also sparked the kindling that would soon become a fiery passion of mine.
I had never had a memorable past and I was sure my future would be bland as well. I was never the one to stick out in a room full of people, a crowded hall or street. I’d never accomplished anything meriting praise or approval and I knew when I died my memory would flicker out like a match in the wind.
I had always been comforted by that thought. I had a feeling of freedom, that no one was expecting anything from me, and I could live my life to my own rules. I didn’t belong to anyone. My new story began when I started grade ten at a new school. I had never had many friends and I would be entering this new environment completely unaccompanied, by friends or reputation. Since no one had any preconceived notions about my past, I figured I would have a little fun with my peers. I decided it was as good a time as any to begin my long career of decorated fabrication.
It had started innocently enough, changing my home town, then it slowly escalated to more grandiose fish-stories; prestigious accomplishments at incredibly young ages, a prodigy of music or academics, and so on. In all truth I never expected any of it to catch on, but I soon realized the masses’ infallible captivation with an embroidered tale. I became a small legend in my own right, a big fish in a small pond. I got ahead of myself; I admit I was quite partial to make-believe.
Eventually the fa├žade fell. In the even of almost anything there is adversity and protestations. When one goes to the extreme, you receive extreme polar reactions, either they love it or they hate it. Though I was for the most part a success, there were those who disagreed. There were those who called me a liar, that I was obscurant and ashamed of my humble upbringings. They all asked why I was not content with the truth, with my reality. This was where I diverged from the majority. I was not ashamed, nowhere near it. I described it as a social experiment, the construction of a new reality. It was my protestation to the majority’s perception of a communal reality. I believed everyone to be incarcerated, always needing to be sure of reality and truth. But the reality is that truth means nothing in the collective sense. For me and for those who believed the tales, my reality is the stories I tell. I am characterized by them; they become part of my being.
You may ask why I chose this path, why I didn’t stick with the trivial existence I had in my past. Why, if I was so content with being invisible, did I turn the spotlight upon myself? The answer is this; though I had freedom in my insipid way of life, I have more freedom now. Nothing is beyond my reach, I can fabricate anything I wish and become something completely different, something distinctive. If everyday life is conventional, usual, and run of the mill, the stories derived from them are colloquies, bland and tasteless. When we have the freedom to imagine other worlds, other fantastical situations, and nothing is impossible. Everyone has a small desire to be immortal. People tell stories because the idea of our words living on when we’ve passed away is exciting. Everyone wants to live forever, perhaps not literally, but when we tell these tales that are passed down, told and retold even after our passing, it continues to give fuel to the fire and the flames can live on forever.


at last.

can you give me

I need a place to stay.
A place to hide away.
let me live in every way


what they say anymore

it must be so wonderful, so great to be so sure. to know without a doubt what you need in order to attain indesputable happiness. is it that easy for everyone? have i not found it yet? or am i simply unable of acheiving it? this is the reason i can't believe in fate. I am never happy, never completely satisfied. i could believe that there's the one person i'm destined for and continue searching for this ellusive home in vain, passing by mediocraty. maybe it's true, but i dont believe it. i would sacrifice perfectly copable existences and slander other's hopes because mine are too grand. but should i have to deal with anything less than perfect? but there's no such thing as perfect. there's always this endless quest for self betterment. props to those who have found it. maybe it was a mere fluke. or maybe they're just telling themselves its perfect, telling themselves to be happy. maybe i'm afraid of happiness. no, i'm afraid of missing opportunities, of failure, of a half-existence. I cant turn my back on any opportunity. i don't want to be ashamed of the life i'm living, i just want to live.
i am an emotional packrat.


the avalanche

I met a million flowers bent and broken from the rain.
I slept beneath an avalanche, I wandered among the trains.
I feasted on the many meals of a broken man's hurt and pain.

I've sank beneath the layers of a lonely mind
I've seen the empty horrors there, wishing I was blind
I kept walking through the mountain ranges not caring what i left behind

I felt my heart and soul within wither and fall down
I found myself once again in this lonely battered town
I saw the remnants of a deadened love that broke my heart and stole my crown


All of me

It's a beautiful torment.
A painful love.
My broken hallelujah.



please refer to the post prior to this one to explain my following actions.

It makes me angry. I know there's no right for me to be, yet I am. And I don't want to change. Yes, I am frightened by this. I have seen unsettling similarities between myself and my mother. They're growing exponentially now, and I don't have any intentions of stemming the flow.

You have as much a right as any to enjoy yourself. Maybe I'm jealous, it's entirely possible. Maybe I'm afraid that you'll damn yourself further. Maybe I'm just afraid. Maybe I could be avoiding the conclusion. Maybe I'm overreacting. I'm almost certain I am. But that doesn't stop me from acting in this manner.

"what's wring with smoking toking and drinking? Richard doesn't see a problem with it, and he's grade 10. Emma doesn't see a problem with it, and she's grade 9! Melissa doesn't see a problem with it, and she's grade 8!"

"Wait, what? Grade 8? That's disgusting. Revolting." He thought I was talking about drinking toking and smoking. No, I'm still stuck in the past and thinking of something else completely. Revolting.

please don't let me be misunderstood

Baby, do you understand me now

Sometimes I feel a little mad

But don't you know that no one alive

Can always be an angel

When things go wrong I seem to be bad

But I'm just a soul whose intentions are good

Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood

Baby, sometimes I'm so carefree

With a joy that's hard to hide

And sometimes it seems that all I have do is worry

Then you're bound to see my other side

But I'm just a soul whose intentions are good

Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood

If I seem edgy I want you to know

That I never mean to take it out on you

Life has it's problems and I get my share

And that's one thing I never meant to do

Because I love you

Oh, Oh baby don't you know I'm human

Have thoughts like any other one

Sometimes I find myself long regretting

Some foolish thing some little simple thing I've done


a kiss.


The bribe to stay on the phone

What am i suppose to do
just tell me and i'll make it true
you are the one
my life with out you is done
cant tell you how much i care
and every thing with you i wanna share
i want to know that you'll be there
to know that ill always have air
your one of a kind
like you, ill never find
so tell me what you need
even my life, indeed
your my dream
with out you I'm lost in steam
i though i can figure things out
but what to do to have you doesn't count
i can wait if that's the issue
but my eyes will need some tissues
hope i can be the man
tomorrow today when ever i can
just be with me
and let me be
the one for you
who always knew
that your the one
my life with out you Is done


there's an abundance of inner monologue
floating around my brain
I'm too weary to let it out
so it continues,
bumping into the outer layers
bruising my mind
Ah you hate to see another tired man
lay down his hand
like he was giving
up the holy game of poker
You tell him to come in sit down
but something
makes you turn around
You cannot close your shelter.

It's true that all the men you knew were dealers
who said they were through with dealing
Every time you gave them shelter
I know that kind of man
It's hard to hold the hand of
anyone who is reaching for
the sky just to surrender

I see the hope fade away as smoke curling around his shoulder. His constant kicks through the gutter makes my shoulders sink that much lower. My will is weakened by my love. The light is scattered and absorbed by the greedy eyes of fate. Their hands thrashing through the feeble cloud, reducing all our hoping to flying dust. Stamina is running low as the sand that marks the time is falling through. To win you have to keep going until it hurts. then keep going further. The air is catching and dragging itself through the tissues of my lungs. Everywhere I look there's a red tinge, and I feel the world around me scratching at me with its jagged nails yet I continue. I've tried so hard to keep going, I wonder if I would even know how to stop.


the bus ride made her unwell, added to the feeling of sickness from unexpected
warm temperatures and coming over-equipped for the weather, and unequipped
for hydration. she walked on home, the sun in her eyes. Halfway there she had
an inexplicable urge to take off her shoes and walk barefoot in the cool trickles
of water running down the side of the road. she composed herself, but marvelled
in springs progression, conveyed by the glistening reflections of sun in the gutters.
a beautiful sense of nostalgia, of care-free springs, sending leaves and twigs down
those macro rivers and watching them spiral down in the current. she thought
she might have to do that again, and soon. nothing better than a dose of childhood
innocence to beat that mundane existence and those walking blues.