Runaway.

Packing bags

Moving so fast

Running to the door

To shut it on my past

Stepping into a world

I would never dare to go

But going all the same

To escape death row

Leaving behind pain

Saying final goodbyes

To finally be free

From this life of lies

I get into the car

Scared as can be

But happy all the same

To be leaving the old me

No more cages and locks

Just wide open land

Different names and looks

A life no longer bland

A new set of rules

A new job everyday

A new manner to speak in

With much more to say

Will they let me go?

Will they even care?

It doesn’t really matter

To stop me... they wouldn’t dare

But when the news breaks

On one cold chilling day

You will sit there and watch

As they say I’m the latest runaway

Ramble.

This music hall feels as empty as a whore's heart.
I want to know where my inspiration went.
Perhaps it's hiding behind the mountain of fast food containers.
Damn us college kids.

My mind is racing as I glance over these scales.
The notes remind me of weighted down balloons.
God forbid they escape.

As I watch the other students mingle, I wonder of their lives.
Do they really understand the concept of life?
Why won't that girl blow her nose instead of snorting for fifty minutes.
Is this hall their escape like it is mine?
Fuck these questions.

Too bad this writing sucks.
My mind is lame.

Paper Airplanes.

It was two in the morning. Liz was awake - still awake, lying on the living room sofa, and she couldn't sleep. Her boyfriend, Dan, was never this late home. He wasn't even this late home a month ago, on his twenty-second birthday. Liz wasn't worried, though; more annoyed that he hadn't even thought to call her. What makes it worse was that he hadn't given her a specific time, so he hadn't technically done anything wrong. The glowing red letters of the clock on the DVD player progressed slowly to 2:15, and then through 2:30, until finally, at 2:37 she heard the familiar click of a key being fumbled in a lock, then felt the cold air whoosh through the doorframe. She shut her eyes quickly, pretending to sleep. Dan slipped quietly through the door, and closed it so quietly, that Liz had to open one eye just to check if he had closed it at all. Dan was creeping through the flat, trying not to wake Liz up. 'Stupid idiot' she thought 'if he had any sense at all, he'd know I was still awake'. Liz heard the noisy bathroom fan start to screech and listened to Dan brushing his teeth, washing his face and using the toilet. He walked back into the living room after washing his hands and Liz felt his eyes burning into her until he went into the bedroom. He returned a few seconds later and placed a blanket over her. He kissed her cheek and she turned away.
'Sorry honey. Didn't know you were asleep' he said, as Liz opened her eyes 'Yeah, sorry I'm late. Lost track of time an' all.'
He reeked of booze but Liz overlooked this as Dan searched for eye contact with his girlfriend, but found simply a cold gaze. She stood up, dropping the blanket dramatically, and went into the bedroom without a word. She lay down silently and wrapped the covers around her. The blaze of the streetlight through the window lit up her beautiful, youthful features, and Dan closed the bedroom curtains. He stepped around them afterwards, and lit a cigarette.
'You'd better get to sleep, babe, you've got school in the morning' he said, the though about it for a while 'Oh no you don't it's Sunday today'
Dan chuckled drunkenly to himself, unaware that Liz wasn't amused. He climbed into bed after undressing, and snuggled his freezing body up to Liz, who was still fully clothed.
'You're not gonna sleep in your clothes, are you babe?' he whispered gently 'Here, let's get them off,'
Even though Dan meant no harm, when he reached for the zip on her skirt, Liz batted his hand away violently.
'Alright, I told you I was sorry' he said, hiccupping 'If you don't want me to sleep in the bed, I'll go sleep on the sofa.'
Dan left to the living room where he spent the remainder of the night.
Liz woke up at eight to hear Dan throwing up in the toilet. She walked to the toilet, and passed him a glass of water she had run and a flannel for his mouth.
'Shouldn't have drunk so much last night, silly me?' he laughed, trying to make light of the situation.
Liz just stared blankly at him and went to make breakfast, and after Dan had cleared up, they sat at the table.
'Mm, this is really nice.' Dan said 'I'm going to London with some mates later, do you wanna come?' he asked
Liz didn't respond.
'Liz? Answer me please'
Liz just looked at him, with the same expression she'd had for the last few days, that of a moody teenager stuck with a situation she couldn't handle. And, at 19, that's just what she was.
Dan nearly exploded with pent up rage 'You haven't said anything in damn near four days!'
He threw his head back frustrated.
Liz let him recover for a few seconds, grabbed her empty plate and then hurled it at the wall.
'You'd better watch your attitude, bitch'
Liz chucked on some clothes, brushed her hair and grabbed her coat.
'Going out?' Dan asked, sarcastically
Liz started to sob 'I...I...' she began, but retreated into noisy wailing.
Dan rushed around the breakfast counter to pull her into a strong hug. He ran his fingers through her hair comfortingly.
'It's okay,' he said, over the bouts of uncontrollable crying 'Ssssh. It's alright Lizzie. But we can't do anything about it until you tell me.'
Keeping a secret like she had was a big burden, but she couldn't let Dan know it. At least – not yet.
'It's nothing. I don't mean to be so upset I'm just stressed at school and stuff. I just had no idea what to do and I just couldn't bring myself to talk to you in case I just burst out crying with all this stress'
'C'mon hun, there's no need to be stressed, you're so bright. You'll ace everything, and even if you don't, you'll at least pass everything,'
'Thanks babe,' Liz said, wiping her eyes, pleased that he'd taken her excuse.
'So, are you coming or not?' Dan asked her, staring right into her eyes.
'No, I think I'll just stay at home.' She said. 'I love you Dan, you know that?'
'Yeah. I really do,' he said, kissing her gently.

Man.

You can tell a man is broken,
Through his eyes,
You can see the passion,
Once burned like a wild fire,
Now extinguished,

You can tell a man is broken,
Through his stance,
Once straight with confidence and will power,
Now hunched and lacking self discipline,

You can tell a man is broken,
Through his walk,
Once walked as if he were balanced,
Now his steps heavy as if he carry the weight and problems of the world,

You can tell a man is broken,
Through his actions,
Once he brought peace and prosperity,
Now all he leaves in his path is chaos and destruction,

You can tell a man is broken,
By how far he’s fallen,
Once a man of justice and truth,
Seeking to bringing light into the dark place of the world,
Now a man that has be stabbed in the back,
Sticks to the shadows of the darkness,
Cares of no one’s justice,
His mind seeing a twisted truth to reality,

You can tell a man is broken,
By whether he loves or hates,
He can't tell you.

Sometimes I feel like I'm moving in motion
through plane, or through stations,
No time for emotion.
Sometimes I feel like I can't place feelings for words,
No time for my feelings, no time for what's heard.
And somebody, somehow, may come changing my mind.
Stop me from moving, so I can chill and unwind.
Somebody, someday, might stop me from motion.
No time for a thought, I have dropped all my notions.
Because I'm working for something, I don't know why I am here.
I don't know where I will head, but I'm living in fear.
If there's something I'm wishing, it's a dream to look for,
because deep down, don't know why I am stressing anymore.

Bullshit.

the only thing better than being fairly compensated
is being overly compensated.
Like, 'thank you for mowing my lawn sonny,
here's 2,000 dollars.
spend it on blow and pay per view porn,
take a month off work and write your novel,
buy yourself something nice
because you're the voice of your generation
and you deserve it."

and you do, deserve it that is,
for surviving that coat hanger attack at a tender age,
for never being properly misunderstood,
for being left out of grunge because flannel made you itch,
for being the solitary flower
in the thanksgiving centerpiece,
a lonely, orange, late blooming flower
surrounded by pine cones and rustic grasses
and fallen leaves
shellacked to ensure their continued brilliance.

Going home.

the tracks and scenery change like a kaleidoscope,
how much has he left behind this time?
though it seems like impatience, its longing.
a longing to be where heart belongs.

he holds no hesitation, just mild guilt.
one could say that each time this happens,
he leaves behind another piece of himself.
don't we all?

but we all have our moments.
when it seems as though nothing good can come of what you try to make.
when you just want to go home.
but where is home when all you leave behind gets lost in the fineprint?
when all you want is to rest without stress,
will you watch the tracks change again?

he tends to find comfort in the solidarity.
the "clean slate" kind of freedom.
he takes with him memories of what could be, and keeps it close to the chest.
when you're able to call the road home, can you stay at ease?

there are times when the only feeling to have is anticipation.
but remember and pay close attention to what you're attempting to prove.
when the trust you need comes with heavy caution,
don't disappoint.


but we all have our moments.
when it seems as though nothing good can come of what you try to make.
when you just want to go home.
but where is home when all you leave behind gets lost in the fineprint?
when all you want is to rest without stress,
will you watch the tracks change again?

i'm going home.
now pass me the flask.

Static.

I am in a mind of static.
People keep talking but I only see mouths moving.
They're saying everything is fine,
But I don't believe this time.

He was walking through the darkness,
That he was holding deep inside.
And with a smile on he'd find a way,
Life leaves, but love remains.

And the sun still shines,
The world still spins around
But I, stand still, I hang my head and cry until
The chill is gone.

And the room turns black.
I fell beside the bed and held his hand,
And found, I’ll never have him back again.
Yet life goes on.

But he’ll no longer live in my mind all night.
He no longer stands in all the spaces of my time.
He's gone away.
Oh, he's gone so far away.

In the morning I see people,
Walking the hallways saying something like
How awful, but they know nothing of the pain
Of losing your best friend.

No more tears, I must be stronger.
Take a hundred steps in one direction, don’t look down.
I can make it through,
as long as I don't think about you.

And the sun still shines.
The world still spins around,
But I, stand still, I hang my head and cry until
The chill is gone.

And the room turns black.
I fell beside the bed and held his hand,
And found, I’ll never have him back again,
Yet life goes on.

But he’ll no longer live in my mind all night.
He no longer stands in all the spaces of my time.
He's gone away.
Oh, he's gone so far away.

They’re saying everything is soon fine,
And with time, its alright.
For once, I believe them.

Six guns.

It used to be a better party town,
three churches, fifteen bars
odds against salvation
or so they say.
Outside the longbranch there’d
be fights nightly, the cowboys
against the railroaders
and the hollywood people
against themselves and everyone else,
but it got confused because
eventually there were hollywood cowboys
and even hollywood railroaders
and this was before the writers showed up.
Back in those days
horses were ridden inside hotels,
guns were brandished,
movies were made.
and the parties, sweet jesus the parties,
one night the hollywood people
commissioned a real indian monk
to create a mandala with cocaine
dyed the colors of the rainbow,
it covered the top of a full sized brunswick pool table.
Putting a mandala up ones nose
is just about the pinnacle of party buddhism
and around this time the writers started to show up.
none of them fought
And they didn’t like cocaine
But they liked the smell.
they came for the views,
they raised horses and imported parmesan cheese
and wrote and they watched
until the cowboys and the railroaders
broke under the scrutiny and left
and that’s when the whole fucking place collapsed.

The Bench.

The Bench, he sits and waits
By the water edge and the cemetery gates
Hold no quandary for his broken part
Can lend solace to a solemn heart

He overlooks the Thames at dawn
Offers an arm for a yawning man
And asks for nothing in return
Agrees a plaque for those who yearn

Through wind, rain, snow and sleet
He is the never moving seat
Made from wood that surrounds
Watches bum up...and bum down

He will be the first kiss of adolescent
The secret surprise of the birthday present
He feels the vibration when you clench
He is the forever faithful wooden park bench

Jane Austen.

And though with that being said, I still feel my mind working over time.
I've thought a lot lately, and I've noticed that people don't take the time to notice things that were once considered wonderful. Like, the way the leaves fall, the way the sun sets, and rises. How Jane Austen could write six novels, about love and life, and never marry once. No one ever questions why some people have freckles, and others don't. Not many take the time to wonder how things work, like the little plastic piece on a shoe string, or how zippers connect the way they do.
And it seems that everything has to be bigger and better than before. But, if it is exactly fine, just the way it is, it's is foolishness, and tossed aside. And yet I sit here and I wonder. I wonder how people like Jane Austen can write so well of love, and never have experienced it for themselves. If you would remember, those of you who read books on a daily basis, that Jane was only engaged for one evening. And so I still wonder.
I suppose that my writing is fruitless, and hardly ever read. I suppose that the few who do read it never read it again. And yet people like myself take the time, and effort to sit and write, and re-read, and correct, and find the errors. I suppose I'm so afraid of rejection, that everything I write is terrible, boring rubbish.
Is that why people are so afraid of the dark? Is that why we're afraid to accomplish our dreams, to move out of our parents' house, to live in the real world? To worry about things other than high school, and magic, and ghosts?
With today's society, I am just completely marveled. Marveled at how greedy we are, at how depressed, and senile, and rude.
I suppose if I went out today, and went to let's say, Balenciaga, and I spent hours designing, and yelling about this dress. A dress that I would spend thousands on. And for what, exactly? Acceptance.
I suppose we feel the need to be accepted.
I for one, think that it's all bullshit.
You can have your designer dresses, your two hundred and fifty dollar jeans, your Jimmy Choo shoes. I'll take my pride in knowing that I don't have the need or desire to be accepted, the want to be loved by a boy or man that won't love me in twenty years.
I'll take that and throw it in the faces of everyone who told me I was foolish, bitchy, ugly, dependent on people, immature, irresponsible, forward, and desperate.
And for what it's worth, I hope someone can see that too.

Mirrors.

I can trace my hours and days, with
Fingers, a little smoke and a looking glass-
How my face with morning confusion looks
Far behind my hair mussed with sweat
And grimaced smile and deep dark bags:
Every day a little different.
Myself a little older.

If you wish I will tell you, with
Just one hand and a coffee pot, of the men and women
Whom, I love-the number few and listed, far between.
For while I have hated a number,
Thoughtlessly chased others:
My naïve heart loved just one.

And with music, I can show myself
The hours I spent alone, drinking, smoking,
Reading, sighing doing nothing else, nothing else
Where/are: the hours that I adored the most.

Give me time, a jigsaw puzzle, mirrors and some slate.
And while I may not create anything you respect
Perhaps I could make something
Learn something
See something
Conceal something-
That could seal immortality.

You know as well as I do,
The arrangement we have- it doesn’t
Feel right, sit right, breathe the way it should.
I can show you in photograph albums
Of black and white - even of green and gold
What I want from you

It gives me the chills
To think of child hood, the beach and my face so cold
Obsession my desire for an eternal youth,
As I watched a dream die,
Or others cry realizing it’s no good

But you know as well as I do.

And I know very little if we speak of truth.

Traffic Jam.

While sitting in an hour long traffic jam tonight, I thought of things that would be equally as fun, if not "funner" than sitting there:

- Cybering with hawt kydz.
- Being attacked by rabid chinchillas.
- Self-inflicted cigarette burns.
- Having sex with Barney.
- Making babies.
- Stem cell research.
- Hunting with Dick Cheney.
- Doing the Helen Keller.
- Counting back from 666 by 4's.
- Doing music theory homework.
- Getting drunk off of Mike's Hard Lemonade.
- Studying woman's suffrage.
- Under-water basket weaving.
- Hanging out with the Mafia.
- Ctrl + Alt + Delete
- Listening to Asher Roth.
- Childbirth.
- Cleaning a monkey.
- Shopping for thongs.
- Repeating the alphabet forwards and backwards.
- Passing the sobriety test.
- Watching Asian porn.
- Popping a balloon on your face.
- Find the cure for cancer.
- Astrophysics.
- Tits.
- Listening to William Shatner speak of his awesomeness...Or lack thereof.
- And lastly, partying with George Bush.

Flash.

You know how it started. We bought those little bottles of Jack and parked your truck out on the levy. The moon was only half there but bright enough to cast shadows beneath us and throw dancing lights out across the water. That night was as hot as an Arizona summer and we slept out under a million stars with the grass tickling our sides, we were so free.

I can't even bring myself to take that dress I wore out of the closet. We're so chained by everything we have to be. Things aren't the same between us now, I don't know if they ever will be. You're so miserably square in that suit and tie, and it's all I can do to keep breathing buried beneath layers of smog in the confines of this car as I spend my life commuting from a home which is less than homely to a plastic cell in a concrete prison which stands as a monument to all those wasted good intentions and a million distorted dreams. We're living dishonestly to our true selves.

I still love you, yet somehow that feels distorted too.

Sea Monkey.

The thick batter of ideologies

Rift across the burning skillet

The scent of bludgeoned bodies

Drift through the scentless skies



In the name of all holiness

The banner of zeitgeist follies

Skate across the despotic demographics



Bombs fall across the oasis

While the weak and disenfranchised

Line up for the bullet of democracy



The devil slices up his decadent pie

Serving up to those who SHOULD

(know better)



A bloody cross is enamored

With salty tears for jaded souls

While the privileged sip macabre martinis



The flood of irrelevant information

Washes the earth for 40 days & nights

While the internet drives us

Warily into the next sub prime martydom





The children of bastard(less) milieu

Only serve to anchor us

Into their thermonuclear subtext



Choking upon the Devil’s Pie

We regurgitate the seeds

Of what we so eagerly sow



Sprinkle the golden lasso

Upon the neck of the poor

We seek oblivion’s sweet release



The inconsequential desires of peons

Are superimposed with the idiocy

And sheer democratic inebriety

Of what we perceive ourselves to be