I often wonder
I often wonder
how it feels
to have someone
by your side
at a time of need.
I often wonder
how it feels
to have a hand
to pull you through
when the current
goes against you.
I often wonder
how it feels
to have a safe place
to pour out your heart
when your inner battles
tear you apart.
I often wonder.
because you see,
it is hard to believe
when they always leave.
Living is traumatic
i'm sick of being subverse, you see, I want it reverse
you get what you pay for and you won't be reimbursed
this isn't coded verse, another fifth grade curse,
or more Garbage lyrics of who had it worse
but if life's like a game, and pain's the competition
how have i had it this hard, but i'm hardly even winning?
if my sins are forgiven, well I still ain't done sinnin
how have i lived all these years, but i still ain't done livin?
it just goes on forever, til you drop dead, or give in
til you buy in, or sell out, til the thing pile run out
there's no ETA, whether devout or with doubt, a nonspecified amount
of drama, of trauma, of please, no, i don't wanna
but it never stop from keep happening,
in an era they call The Slackening
but it's the age of anxiety, bad irony,
online piracy, and never fucking silently!
come join my millenial dynasty, where we don't allow sobriety
or any right to privacy, but it's not like society
it's just a sibling rivalry, us against psyschiatry
and we'll be what we're prescribed to be,
and from our cage, we'll call it free
but it's no use, like any alien could deduce,
it's animal abuse, walking ourselves like a dog on a noose,
with two screws loose, swallow poison, but call it booze
and talk about the brews, the bruise? Our dues?
And to mind your p's and q's! the whole world is a ruse,
that we don't get to choose, like it was written by dr suess
introducing, The Big Confuse, it speaks only in kazoos,
and eats silver spruce, it preys on existential excuse
and dresses only in chartreuse, but i heard it graduated from syracuse
it was in the news, or one of my so called breakthroughs
about who i'm supposed to accuse
of this unintelligent design, whoever made it, didn't refine,
before they spun it out in time, a picture of artistic of crime
a species peaked, must now decline, and we'll all be disatsified
because life is traumatic, like we're all flowers in god's attic
with no mothers, fucking our own brothers, made up of numbers,
dithering away in cement structures, looking for the meaning of life
in Rutgers, and bad instructors, yeah we're all suckers
just looking for a nipple to latch, a feeling to catch,
and a bandade to patch, all this mismatched suffering,
no bluffering, cause what i've been discovering,
is no matter breed or coloring, we all need a little mothering
drinking pain
heart is heavy
eyelids barely open
pulse slows
my ribs
turn
into
daggers
that
stab
into
my
soul
my
hands
become
arthic
and
curve
around
my
neck
and
suffocate
from
the
carbon
dixoide
that
fills
the
air
around
me
the
walls
fill
the
gap
in
the
middle
of
the
room
and
press
into
the
sides
of
the
bed
breaking
the
frame
underneath
that
carries
the
weight
of
my
existence
I lay
back
and
await
my
death
and
watch
the
reaper
dance
across
my
walls
in
a midnight
blue
cloak
carring
a hook
he
takes
his
hook
and
digs
deep
into
my neck
and
yanks
my
cornary
arterty
and
takes
my
soul
and
leaves
my
carcuss
for
the
ghouling
eyes
of
attendees
at
my
funeral
the
four
horsemen
come
kissing
my
lips
sucking
in
my
air
my
eyes
sunk
deep
into
my
depression
my lips shrivel
my skin
goes
pale
and
blue
the
devil
comes
to
bring
me
to
my
heaven
my heaven
is
a
place
of
burning
coals
hemped
upon
the
flesh
of sinners
a gasloine
flavored air
submerged
in a 6 pack of ciagars
the devil ’s
name
is marboro
my wings
turn into
that
of
demon
I become
the
monsoter
god
made
me
when
he birthed
me
through
the
birth
canal
of
a
fallen
angel
named
statan
I took
the
shards
of
the
empyty
beer bottle
from the drinker that birthed me
and tried to cut myself out
early
so I could
run
away
to
thoose
cozy
famlies
that
you
read
about
in
children’s
book
I guess
its not your fault your fucked up
The Prose Universe Part 2
Mr. Syne is no ordinary math teacher. At least, not at this school. Mr. Syne is one of those teachers that all the girls in the school find attractive. So instead of learning algebra a lot of the girls blackout and daydream about being Mrs. Syne. Apparently, Mr. Syne is their ideal husband. He’s cute, intelligent, kind, creative, and when he talks the sound of his voice makes women just want to drop their panties. However, Mr. Syne has got nothing on Ms. Vyxyn, the school’s drama teacher. I have her class after Mr. Syne. Ms. Vyxyn is considered the hottest teacher at the school. Every class she has fills the auditorium with no seats left over. With most of them being guys. Why? Because just about every boy in the school has a crush on her. Hell, even some of the adults have a crush on her. Her sweet, soothing country style voice is probably the reason a lot of boys around the school walk around with a textbook in front of their genitals in order to hide their boners. Since I’m gay, I’m one of the few boys in the school who don’t have a crush on Ms. Vyxyn.
Earlier, I told you that even some of the adults had a crush on Ms. Vyxyn. Well, no one has a bigger crush on Ms.Vyxyn than Harry Situation, the owner of the biggest newspaper in the country. He’s rich, young, single, successful and also one of the toughest movie critics in the country. He destroyed one guy’s career by writing one word in the review. The poor guy hasn’t been able to make a come back since. Damn!
A few years ago Harry came to the school to watch his niece in a school play. Ms. Vyxyn, of course, oversaw the overall production of the play and so at the end of the play she made a big thank you speech. Harry saw Ms. Vyxyn and has been chasing after her ever since. No one knows if Ms.Vyxyn likes Harry Situation, but the school happily takes the money he donates to the school’s drama program. Many think he is stuck in the friend zone, but sometimes she kisses him. This leads some to think they have an on and off relationship or at the very least are friends with benefits. Basically, no one is really certain of the nature of their relationship. From time to time, he will drop by unannounced to visit Ms.Vyxyn. Today was one of those days, so we were let out of drama class ten minutes early.
After Ms.Vyxyn’s class is lunch and I was starving. On my way to the cafeteria, I noticed that AlSalehi is heading to the auditorium. AlSalehi is a biochemist. He teaches A.P science classes for the scientifically gifted. He has a crush on Ms. Vyxyn too. He hates seeing Harry around Ms.Vyxyn. I hope Harry’s gone before AlSalehi gets there or a fight might break out. That’s not my problem, I say to myself as I enter the cafeteria.
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503 Years Earlier (3 years before the Twain Revolutionary War Ends)
The sky is dark. The cold heavy wind blows through the forest. For most people work begins at dawn, but I’m not most people. So work begins at the dead of night. Few people know my name. I’m the Director of Twain Intelligence. I help the Revolution by providing important information. My code name is Sandflea68. Right now, I’m riding my horse as fast as I can to meet General Paul D. Chambers. I must make him aware that General Jumotki, a general of Emperor Jim Lamb’s forces, is planning a surprise attack. General Chambers is one of the best generals the revolution has on our side. If General Jumotki kills General Chambers, then any hope of defeating Emperor Lamb will be lost. I can’t fail. I only hope that I reach him in time. Mnezz and Mtrubenfire are not far behind me. These girls are some of the best spies we got. Once we get there, they will get Andy Betz, one of the faces of the revolution, to safety. “Stop now or die”, said a deep voice coming from behind me. I turn my head to see who the voice belonged to. He was on his own horse. He and some of his men were chasing us. “Oh no, it’s Fauxhero!”, said Mnezz. Fauxhero was a well-known spy of Emperor Lamb. “He must be here to stop us”, said Mtrubenfire. “Girls, go ahead I’m gonna take care of Fauxhero and his men. General Chambers must be warned in time.”, I said. I stop my horse and watched as their bodies quickly become smaller in the distance. I prepare for battle and ready my sword and shield.
Shattered
Please don't remember this
this love for you that consumed me
this love for you that haunts me still
that I worshiped every word you lied
or the thousands of sweet nothings
that really were nothing
Please don't remember this
the sound of my voice as I told you I loved you
the sound of me on my knees as you left
the feelings of raw hurt as you walked out the door
or the warmth of my embrace
that clings on to the cold
Please don't remember this
the words of a fool in love
the words of love falling on deaf ears
the sight of you as your first kissed me
or the sight of you as you left
me shattered
HOPE
I've always thought of Hope as a beautiful thing. It is the driving force behind the tidal wave that is my emotional resilience. The light, no matter how dim, that illuminates and nurtures my deepest rooted longings. Hope is the dirt under my fingernails, as I scratch and claw at the walls of a seemingly inescapable pit. Hope is April, on a day when the sun is strong enough to paint the city walls with early spring but not quite enough to blister the streets. Hope is essential, I used to think, in maintaining any sense of semblance of sanity.
Hope is also, however, my poison. It feeds off of the earth-shattering uncertainty that simmers beneath my skin. It pounces, instigates, peels back the layers of rational thought until I'm left with a feeling of deep disconnect from what is real. Hope is the magnet that deters my compass needle from true North. It infects my mind with fantasies that grip me like a snake coiled around its dinner. And those emotions, the ones I'm capable of conjuring from merely imaging, feel so heartbreakingly honest that it takes a moment to remember what they are—illusory. The snap back to reality rattles me with stunning disorientation. It is that moment, dripping with lucidity, that feels like a dagger straight through the heart.
I've come to think of Hope as an enemy. A treasonous two-faced bitch—but one that I can't seem to stop forgiving time and time again. I invite it into my bed, to sleep next to me, share my pillow and breath my air, until it spirals into an agency I cannot control. Hope is tequila. The salt, the shot, the lime. It all goes down easily—far too easily. I pour another and another and for a while I twirl and sing in a vat of brilliant elation. But the feeling is fleeting and soon I am pressing my cheek into the bathroom floor, wishing for any relief from the heat that radiates behind my cheeks and the head-splitting agony that accompanies vomit and shame. Hope is an experience con-man. One who reads his victim with ease better suited for the morning paper, channels in around the most feeble of weak spots, aims and strikes bullseye every time. Hope is maddening, because no amount of my own self-awareness can form a shield solid enough to repel a round of bullets disguised as dizzying daydreams.
If Hope is my poison then what is its antidote? I don't believe there is one. As mind-numbing as it is, nauseating in it mercilessness, Hope is flame lit so deeply in my core that there is no extinguishing it. Whether is rages like a forest fire engulfing coastal California or flickers like the final spark of a dying lighter, it pulses through my veins all the same. I think that my most honest moments are fueled by sparkling possibilities. The feeling of maybe, just this once. In these moments, I feel the raw beat of my own life. It feels like dangling a hand half an inch away from a lit stove.
It is this feeling of vulnerability that is so beautifully, inherently human.