Literature for the Ambivalent
I'm Jack's misplaced hate. I'm a fool with a pen and a dream. I rest my trembling hands on illuminated motionless keys that speak to me in my dreams. I flirt with ideas but they always walk away disappointed and they never call. A head full of dynamic truths that need watering. Can a rose … Continue reading Message in a bottle
I no longer have any use for nostalgia. Thinking about the past is inutile. It serves no purpose, unless one enjoys self-inflicted wounds. From now on, whenever I start looking back on past years-good or bad-I'm going to gracefully glide across the room in my one-piece disney princess pajamas (Elsa and Anna, sisters forever) and … Continue reading Unbridled Thoughts of the Mad
Before I grew old, I had hopes and dreams, I believed in things like God and other super-beings. Before all the death and chaos I thought I had a purpose. Before the infinite suffering and anti-climatic days I believed in happiness. Before I grew old I believed in innocence. We are all guilty, the only … Continue reading Before I grew old…
They stuff large quantities of food in their gaping mouths, jamming it in without thought. Continuing on like the entitled, pampered, spoon-fed children they never grew out of. These people, these overgrown self-important animals with unwarranted pretentious confidence, and egos unfit for the halos they borrow from the hat racks of the pragmatic. They have … Continue reading I’m not waving, I’m drowning
My defiance is one of many bulwarksI ostentatiously boast whenMy cloak isn't relevant.Part of a pseudo-diabolical guide-Inherited from my ancestors-To fool myself and others,In order to remainEnigmatic.There's a fractured lineScribbled in black sand,That vaguely bisects us fromWho we are andWho we pretend to be.An ambiguous grey area,That rests just below eye level.We're all denizens ofThis … Continue reading Peacocking Through Time
My comprehension of knowledge has always been difficult for me to share or speak of. I'm finding it does not rest solely in my brain, that my brain is merely a receptionist. For lack of a better cliche I would have to call it a sponge. However, when that sponge gets squeezed in order to … Continue reading I know not what I speak of
I hold close tomorrow's dose, Lazily backstroking through introspect,I tell myself, "Hey, at least it's not dope."My plans to taper were crushedWhen the compulsion ruptured intoa destitute of self-control.I know where this dismal path leads,And the Black Dog will be walking medown it.A deceptive malady that enjoysWatching me run in place,With the occasional joyride on … Continue reading The Blue Pill
