Impervious to the dry desolate kingdom of earth, he strives forward, “do not fear the divine, we can rebuild what they can destroy.” “Foolish words from a drunken tongue, speak wisely or these may be your last pleasant breaths of air.” “I surely cannot die, I am a colossus of man.” Cautious be those who spout wisdom from lack of knowledge, more cautious be those that listen with a trusting ear. Staggering to forgiveness, grieving for life, he mocks death as it smiles upon him. To understand understanding is to begin to heal. His last breaths. Now peace is eternal? I hope that your god forgives you for all your sins. I hope that the life you live chokes you as it has choked me. I hope that you are thrown far from the narrow road you walk. I hope your deliverance brings you eternal suffering.

Praying for a miracle, I have to choose between life or death, has life been created out of kindness or wrath, technology seems to be advancing our hate, media biased warrior culture thriving on lack of understanding, progression for the sake of progress, losing hold, losing soul. How important are you, holding grudges on the lifeless. How politically correct. I fester inside your heart, only to stop it from beating. I am the opiate to the masses, I am cynicism, I am the web. See you at the bottom.

Teenage waste is shed on you and me, you are so self righteous, stop your crying, because I ain’t listening. A million have it worse, third world hell hole, no one to hear their pleas, no one to calm their conscience, is my son dead, is my family buried beneath the sun, hunger is setting in, thirst is setting in. You pray for things to be better, he’s tired of listening to your petty pleas, empty heart, empty mind, no remorse. And we are all doomed for your sins, if he’s still there at all. Send me nothing, I walk alone, because a million have it worse.

‘Wipe that smile off your face son’ abusive to the core, ‘If I told you once I told you a thousand times’ taste the satisfaction, my anger is my disease. I’ll feel better if I hit her one more time. Down the hatch, it tastes like success. Work is hell, hell is work, life is pain, so we pursue our American Dreams. Go ahead get that chip off your shoulder, ‘don’t talk back to me.’ I hide myself at all times, behind a cloak, a label, and a bottle. Peel the flesh from my bones, so you can see the rot, peel the world from my shoulders, discover disease. You have entered my frame of reference, ‘BE THE DREAM’ and all is silent so all is well.

I fell in Love with a world that COULDN'T Love me back

In those open eyes,
reflecting back fresh painted yellow lines,
I hear the car door slam,
and we're off again.
The time will pass,
by counting those rusted railroad tracks,
better pray to god,
that storm don't roll in.
Again we stop along that old highway road,
heading west, waiting for the world to swallow us whole,
curious are these words,
I watched the spider weave.
Here the sun is unforgiving,
It'll take the soul from your body just for living,
pedal to the floor,
roll the windows down.
That bead of sweat,
rolling off your brow from your forehead
caught by the wind,
air conditioning your brain.
Although we're fried,
We'll get there quicker and in half the time,
they want us dead,
they may get their way.
I inhale smoke,
the engines blown and won't cool down with Coke,
bottled up,
so the sun can shine.
I've lived in sin,
but just this time my heart might give in,
to stay alive,
you have to choose.

I walked a day through the desert sands,
left to die for killing another man,
but he would have killed me too.

Culling Songs without Titles

Eyes drop to the floor, he cannot bare to look you in the eye. Blood crusted around the edges of his nostrils, taste the spit, foul fractured face bones metal plate to seal the bond, the world meets you at your lowest point, feet anchoring you to the worlds gravitational lust, barely holding on, that which is now created will never be again, and yet you’ve settled for less, you allowed yourself to rot. Eyes lodged to a technological break through, nostrils barely snorting air and dust, you passed out and hope you never wake up.

May weary days come crashing in, may vital signs be growing faint, alive or dead I’ve found elegance in every deep gasp of air. A journey of mind, body and soul ends in six feet of water, a toe tag and a worm infestation, but it was worth the trip.

Do you fear, do you fear your end? What way will you go, a mass extinction of building egos. Or do you fear, do you fear the change of times. How an idea can kill the very foundation a generation was built upon. Are you afraid that your originality will be bought and sold, afraid that you were educated to provide lips for service. May my mouth be the vessel of discourse and remorse. Carrying waves of sound through willing ears to be regurgitated and resold. I am the enticing cynic who spits upon the fabric which morality was sewn. This is my plea for hope that this is the end of your generation. This is my plea for hope, may this be the end of your generation. May I be the carrier of the disease, may every breath I take infect another life, let me infect all those that can hear. Let the world know you are not a slave.

Enter the life that calls for you, breathe in, it’s all you have left, just breathe, but you know that some ones waiting. Your hotel room is quiet but you enter anyway, she begins to undress and it all seems surreal. She’s already dead, you’re already shaking, your blood pushes through your veins, faster than before. You can taste the air, its thick with sweat and mold, neither of you says a word, you just dance around each others bodies. Her eyes are sunken into her head, skin drips from her cheeks, hollow and alone, lost and immersed in the poison that has plagued you for years. All it takes is a deep breath and your guilt is gone, your conscience submerged in cannibalistic thoughts. It’s all you have left. Empty and torn. Pinned between body and floor. From your sleep you’re stirred. Soaked in sweat. Time to move on.

Exanimate

Everyday passes with no accord; we share the light and process the adaptation, maybe we can step forward, from the bottom we burrow, and sink, and decompose. Fall deep into the shadow, and fear the comfort lost when you’re still part of your own skin. Ignore, Ignore, Ignore, in massive migrations we burrow to the center, to the center of the hollow earth.

TITAN

Life is monotonous, life is static. And all of your will has been removed. I shall run oceans dry; I shall scorch life to dust. Where change has brought no virtue, I will remain to consume. This crossroad, neither path shall lead to a center. Time and space, destroyed and devoured. Can you feel your mind running weak? You were born under the veil, possessing the means within your hands. And you will reap what you sow. I HAVE FOUND IT IN FILTH AND SORROW. Almighty Gaea, mother of all life, deem me your titan, I shall find you in the earth, and I shall find you where mountain meets sky. Move your feet, lift your anchor, one step and change begins.

THE ALCHEMIST

I leap forward to catch my tongue, I smile crooked and show my teeth, and all those that fear shall come to know my name. I belong, to the Earth. This is goodbye. WATCH AS I TURN GOLD TO SAND. May we realize we all share the same fate, let this be our bond while from either shore they rise, to destroy us. All HEARTS REST WITH THE SETTING SUN. How far are you willing to go. So I hope you can understand, why I'm leaving you, in the absence of death, I am the end.

May these words reach you in deep slow breaths.

February's arrows through hearts leave dead men come March

How can I write about love when all I know is pain? All I know is false hope and crushed dreams.

Anyway, my friend Missy is planning an event that, this year, that will benefit cancer research. It will consist of food, live music, booths, games, etc. The festivities will occur sometime in May. Not sure on the exact date. If you or anyone you know, knows of anyone who would be able to help out in anyway, let me know. Thanks!

Furthermore, I've been writing a lot more Poetry? I guess you could call it. I'm not sure if my form is any good but as far as I'm concerned, anything that art is art. No boundaries, no stipulations. Just you and the things you feel. Simple and delicate. Intricate and rough. You can thank my buddy Taylor.

Toes hanging off the edge of town,
the sidewalks ended, run out of ground,
and the sun slips through the sky, down,
while I stand in the lights of that old ford.

The engines still running into the night,
the tail pipe smoke curtails towards the moons light,
drifting like I used to, like I still want to, like I still am,
through a that old cemetery known as life.

Just another coal mining town, where children come to die,
Just another dead end road baring witness to time,
we were all friends, and we were nothing like them,
and we've got death constricted, wrapped tight.

I just don't want to continue to pretend,
like everything is still alright, like it used to,
and I can still taste that red lipstick on my lips,
look how clumsy time has made me.

mutterings

The ever so inviting sweet smell,
of candles burning, cigarette smoke and home cooked meals,
and the warmth that builds inside my bosom,
when I cross that white frame,
rushing through that screen door,
large bag of unwashed unmentionables,
left sitting on the floor.

I tied all my hopes to a string,
and cast them out into eternity.

we grew cold as the world grew old,
we grew apart, like magnets.

strong current of electricity,
burning holes at the bottom of my feet,
conductor, conducting, insanity,
grab hold.

"My Candle Burns At Both Ends"

I packed all of my things,
into a nike duffel bag,
and walked out into a blue morning,
into a small van with six friends.

Most of our time spent,
driving, waiting, sitting,
coarse straps of nylon,
wrapping us safely together.
The warm summer air my blanket,
a side panel door or a shoulder my pillow,
off ramp and on ramp,
starbucks bottled espressos fighting sleep.

Those bottles ringing off the pavement,
80 miles an hour down an empty road,
the spark of bright light and loud shatter,
dives deep into Babylon oblivion.
Seemed like we were going nowhere,
and still it feels that way,
All those hard wood floors,
and nights spent in our van.
How days used to seem to run together,
and how moments of insanity,
seem like moments of clarity,
and how the end was written in the creases of our faces.

I've prayed to wake up to those mornings,
to wake up in another place, another town,
All those nights thinking I wanted my own bed,
I find, now, myself addicted to white broken lines.
Sitting together in all those late night diners,
spent so many hours inside my own head,
because the only place I felt at home,
is in a van and on the road.

Twenty minutes of loud expression,
undeserving faces and mis fortunate ears,
ounces of self devourment ripping at cartilage,
sweat, sweat, sweat, for destitution.
This is my perfection. You can't take it from me.

Stalks

"A Ship Close to Harbor is safe, but ships were not made for this purpose."

In my heart, it is what it is and to those who wait, good things are bound to happen. A mantra that sits in my head. I want to meet someone that I can wake up to every morning and say, with every ounce of honesty in my heart, "I love you."



I grew up in a small town, that grew exponentially, outward and upward, forward and backward, where trees outnumbered the money in your pocket, and wealth was measured in grains of sand on an abandoned winter beach. We grew and our friends became withering stalks, and we watched them wave in the breeze, Dancing to the rhythm, bundling together in the moon lit marshes, a scene I hadn't seen since I was a child, when my father and I watched a storm roll in off the inlet. They left as quickly as they came, rotting into the earth, becoming mud and trampled beneath loud machines, slaves to a grind, men and women with no futures, to become chained to fruitless marriages at young ages, they want to be in love, so they make believe they are in love. they are resentful children whose parents "messed them up," they pray for their better years, so they buy big houses, and loud cars, and smoke pipes, and drink every night to dull the pain, just because they want to be stalks again, so they could measure happiness in grains of sand. Arise Colossus to a new day.


The constant is the dull stabbing feeling in my side, puncturing my lungs. The fluttering is blood loss.