Writing poetry, attempting to be honest, and trying to steadily improve my outlook and myself.
Listening to anarchists
blare power chords
and scream angrily
about hope and alcohol,
sometimes feels like
finding my breath again.
Twisting hallway arteries spilling people.
Black hole gazes into textbooks and daily jobs.
Support beams shuttering as numbers grow,
all laying down on an elevated floor ready to collapse;
they had believe it to be home at first, but now its just shelter,
satisfaction and purpose compromising while hunger stricken.
Swooping ash blinding half open eyes,
a whirlwind of static and fiery aftermath
weaving through clock-based landscapes,
the breeze wakens up and whips words in our faces,
all the things we said we’d be
displayed in a time that never came,
replaying as our skin looks aged.
Try to stand, declarations of self losing focus
as we realized where we rationalized compromise
to allow us to forget the person we wanted to be,
the kind of human-being we wanted to act like,
leaving them on dusty plains like abandoned artifacts.
I was going to be nicer, I was going to be more motivated.
I was going to be a writer, I was going to beat my vices.
I was going to be that mental anarchist, different, but it was said for not.
I laid down and never got back up, I wasn’t going to complain so much,
but now my back is soar on these wooden panels and I sigh bitter words.
I feel the stubble on my chin, and it feels like admitting
“I could have done so much more when I was younger,
instead of just making so many mistakes.
I could have listened, written down more, ignored less.
I could have paid attention in class, been better than C’s and D’s.
I could have worked harder and completed college.
I could have gotten more done before laying down in bed today,
I could have put in an application for a better job today,
but apparently despite how old I’ve gotten, I’m not done making mistakes.”
Try to stand, try to get up, its not too late…
But it feels like it, where did all my “I’m gonna be“‘s go?
I’m gonna be an artist, I’m gonna be an author,
I’m gonna be successful, I’m gonna get out of this shitty job,
I’m gonna do something with my life, I’m gonna get outside today,
I’m gonna make something good today, I’m gonna a tleast make something.
I was going to be so much more than a space occupier,
reading the same sad news stories, eyes lost in TV static,
droning on with the radio as it sinks into the back ground.
Try to stand, because laying down like this,
is going to be the death of any of us.
It is the one thing I can keep saying to myself,
because it reminds me I’m at least not dead yet.
Sifting through floors made of bone meal,
from grinding thoughts breaking down backbones.
The window pours sunlight on the white dust
and illuminates the damage reeking havoc on internal solar systems
until eyes avert themselves to more pleasant views, however temporary.
Its so easy to talk in half ironic shadows of thoughts,
but when all is equal, hills to flat-lands and back to mountains,
the maskless glare pulls out breaths in giant heaves of desperation,
leaving lips without a voice, without an answer to the aftermath.
I can see so much, but say so much less, boiling in waters
I leaped head first into, pulling myself under for a severed catharsis,
and if this room could speak, it would brood with me in silence,
putting holes in its own walls, because a dead breath can fill a room
with a thought, possessing the air, a ghost freezing dust on finger tips,
and when the room is lost in a single man’s acid-spitting words,
it begins to seem a little smaller, a little more suffocating, a little deadlier.
Slamming fists down on this floor silently, screaming below whispers.
I stare out the window while the curtains are closed, discovering trapping threads.
A million actions at once, an impossibility taking place in my thoughts,
an exercise in cause and effect, but without a practical use of the former.
I keep thinking it, keep thinking it, keep cutting it off, more thoughts.
More grinding thoughts, the floor thickens, I’m losing breathing space.
If only a hard rain could clean the space between the window and the door.
What a relief
that would be.
Hands over my eyes.
I should be asleep.
A tempest of thought hits.
I am pulled from slumber
into violent lucid wakefulness.
Music heals me not.
Closed eyes heals me not.
Deep breaths heals me not.
Plains split, forcing borders
to grow between my dream world
and myself, turning me into
a man without a country
as I attempt to reject my Earthly bounds
and plunge myself into
my mapless ethereal mindscape.
This must work, I must find it.
To turn the corner and find empty alleyways
where celestial thoughts should be,
is to take the natural rhythm
out of the body and toss it away.
Hands over my eyes.
I should be asleep.
Watched The Raid 2….HOLY FUCKING SHIT! FUCK YES! SO MUCH GODDAMN VIOLENCE!
WATCHING SHARKNADO! THE ONLY WAY TO POST ABOUT IT IS IN ALL CAPS!
Well, for those who saw, a little while ago I posted a “Top 10 Thrash Metal Albums” list in an attempt to start talking more about music on this blog since I really want this blog to be more about art in general instead of just mostly poetry. Why “Top Album” lists? Well, to me, in the world of music, there is a sort of mythology behind the “album”; the way people talk about albums and how they’ve shaped the music landscape (the way Nirvana’s “Nevermind” brought alternative rock to the forefront, or how Pink Floyd’s “The Wall” can influence so many people to pick up an instrument and start playing), how the band/album can transcend mere mortals playing instruments and dwell in the arena of “legends”, or how a singular release, a collection of songs, can be looked at as a defining masterpiece which everyone has their eyes on. So without further to do, the list of my top 10 favorite folk punk albums of all time (without repeating bands):
1. “Live the Dream” by Ramshackle Glory
2. “Reinventing Axl Rose” by Against Me!
3. “Knife Man” by Andrew Jackson Jihad
4. “Love Songs For The Apocalypse” by Johnny Hobo and the Freight Trains/Mantits (even though it is a split, I’ll still put it on here, because its such a huge influence on me and was a gateway to acoustic punk and folk punk as a whole).
5. “The Great Depression” by Defiance, Ohio (it was hard to pick between this and “Share What Ya Got”)
6. “Burn the Earth, Leave it Behind” by Wingnut Dishwashers Union
7. “Happy Birthday Hitler” by Asking For It
8. “The Debt of the Dead” by Ghost Mice (wanted to go with “Europe”, but after thinking it over, this was the better album.)
9. “The Anorexic Olson Twin” by The Anorexic Olson Twin
10. “Talon of the Hawk” by The Front Bottoms
as if God
put his fist
Like burning light
piercing your chest
and drifting on
Life trying to
collapse into itself
until your scattered thoughts
are the aching singularity.
Blurred lines drifting
around you until
they have you by the throat.
A need to be smaller
swallowing you up
as it seems
you are only