Message in a bottle

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 grow from concrete? When my mother dresses me in the morning she tells me I’m special and I can be whatever I want when I grow up. Isn’t it time we stop these malicious lies and tell our children the truth. The monsters under the bed are real, they come with adware and chip readers. How do I explain what I know when my mind is safely tucked away in a lock box next to my happiness collecting dust on the top shelf of my closet. The skeletons are planning a revolution. The books will be burned and the past altered. We won’t know the difference, we’ll just nod, take the drugs they give us and be productive. I measure my existence in her smile. I’m swimming in a lake of just friends. I’m skipping over barbed wire on hot coals with callused feet, naked and afraid, live ammo, grenades, rainbows and unicorns. I’m playing hide-and-seek in a corn maze engulfed in flames waiting on rain. She’ll never find me here. If we are what we pretend to be then I’m a deranged lunatic, pseudo-writer, dopeless hope fiend, a lover and a fighter, a genius, and very stable. Happiness is a pseudonym for gullible. Be yourself, everyone else is already faking it. Disheveled and bleeding ink, I’ll sleep when all the pen’s in the world have gone dry. Heavy is the head that wears the frown. Pixels are your friend, buy, buy, buy. Better, faster, bigger, MORE! Share your personal life with the world while we openly steal your thoughts and slowly manipulate the future. The road to happiness is paved with likes. Just take this quick survey for a chance to win a free IPhone and you’ll be on your way to our sandpaper lined pockets. After these messages we’ll have your soul. I digress. When the dust clears and the smoke settles I’ll still be struggling with decomposing thoughts that smell like chloroform and the American Dream. Look Ma’, no hands. Apathy breeds idleness. Origami dreams float in a bath tub of kerosene, I light a match and suffocate the madness, sending smoke signals with my last breath. The signal translates to, “Do not resuscitate.”


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