winter needs to slow down

I am so many kinds of tired.
It sinks into the crevices of my soul,
settling in between the rocks and the bricks there.
It is wet like mortar, after a time
and holds me fast, together.
I subsist on ashes, drinking it in
but it's slowly eroding at my lungs and my stomach.
I am so, so many kinds of tired
and it is wearing me too thin
like a hoodie I never like to wear
because it doesn't keep me warm anymore.

Not Tonight

Not gonna sing a lie tonight
nothing about roses, nothing about candlelight
no forced rhymes, no subtle smiles
no hidden kisses
tonight, I won't do it.
Not gonna sing a lie tonight
hope, promiscuity, interwoven heartbreak
something here, something there, something of interest
she's the one, I'm for fun, something simply must be done
nope, none of that bullshit
not singing about it tonight.
Not gonna sing a lie tonight
no jumpy happiness, no droopy sadness
no affairs, no festivals, no flowers
no sunsets, no umbrellas, no dinners
nothing to celebrate
nothing to liberate
nothing to demonstrate
not tonight.
Not gonna sing a lie tonight
so I won't sing at all.

nothing is sacred.

Everything is interrupted
disfigured, ugly and
malformed.

concise

Goddamn.

nothing

at all
period.

to say today
like yesterday
probably tomorrow, too.

to change
but
something
is broken.

is better
or worse maybe
but not really.

exists anymore.

Hilarious

It was that thumping, that horrid pulsing that woke him up every night. Normally, it was a steady, dull throb, filling his muscles with aching energy and trembling need to explode. Normally, he pushed himself up, getting a drink of water or washing his face - sometimes he would even go for a walk, or a run, feeling all of that energy draining out through his soles as he returned, panting and very much alive. It was all of that energy that he was unaccustomed to.
He hadn't told anyone that his vial was full of water, yet. Perhaps two months ago he had filled it with water, adding a touch of salt to mimic the look of his chemical, the drug that normally kept him sane. God, but he hated it, how it controlled him. It shortened his sentences and lengthened his attention span, two very bad things, and he hated how people regarded him. "Darryl, are you alright? Maybe you should take your vial."
Well, fuck them. He didn't need his vial. Unfortunately, that knowledge was held between him and God, but it was unimportant now. All he had now were the side effects of his natural disorder.
There were few. Mostly he wanted to step on bugs or rip paper, nothing too bad. He was used to the urges, anyway, and staved them off with ease, without changing expression. He had not felt life like recently, and he wasn't about to revert back to his vial to get away from the need to break lightbulbs.
The only other side effect was this, this hungry, pounding heaviness. Darryl pushed himself up laboriously, his head falling back, and sat there for a while before leaning forward to rub his face and then grip his hair tightly in his fists. The burn was pleasant.
Energy rushed through his veins and he groaned a little at the sheer force of it, almost like ecstasy, making his fingertips tingle and thirst for contact. Heat radiated off of him to the point of near-steam. His eyes glowed their volatile green.
It took all of his caution not to launch himself from the bed, but it was normal. He didn't want to wake Samantha up. Today, he tugged his shirt over his head, his black hair fluffy and unruly.
Darryl's lean body wandered into the bathroom, shutting the door and then clicking the light on to eye himself in the mirror. He didn't look much like a raving monster, trapped in lunacy. Besides, a monster didn't care about anybody, and he certainly cared about Samantha. If he didn't look, act, or feel like a monster, he simply wasn't a monster.
He washed his hands, and then his face, and then his arms, the water unusually vivid against his heated skin. God, it felt so good. Still, his blood throbbed rhythmically through him, rushing and flowing all throughout his body, but the water felt so cool it almost sent him into sleep. His cheeks were flushed. He leaned down and gulped the water like a dying man, greedy, until it filled his nose and he coughed a bit at his carelessness.
Shifting his weight a few times, Darryl decided that this night was one he would have to go on a walk, even though he certainly did not feel like walking. Begrudgingly he clicked the light off, entering the room, pulling on his shirt and jacket and shoes. His mind mumbled things in a mantra, over and over again, as though afraid if he stopped thinking of them he would forget them. Don't wake up Samantha. Tie your shoes. Watch out for that shirt on the floor. Kiss her forehead.
He did. She was cool to touch and he almost fell into her for it, but opted instead to let her sleep, licking his hot lips and straightening to step out. Lord, but she felt amazing.
The front door clicked shut behind him and suddenly he felt crushing relief, exhaling loudly as he stepped away from his home, his air a hot puff in the autumn atmosphere. The outside world was so chilling and feral and perfect that he almost forgot about civilization, a wide grin meeting his lips, his insides bristling into instinct. He had an urge, a familiar urge, to run, and he fulfilled it, taking off across the pavement. Tonight was faster than normal nights and Darryl sprinted along the empty sidewalks, atop park benches and around street corners. The urban forest was sleeping, mostly.
When Darryl could no longer breathe, he stopped, hands on his knees, hunched over on the sidewalk. Laughter bubbled up inside of his throat and spilled over into foamy, impish giggling, and he collapsed to the ground on his hands and knees, laughing until he was weak and still laughing after that. His hands clenched so that his fingernails dug into the pavement painfully. Tension raced through his body, his brain reeling, begging him to stop laughing, to go back to bed. He was so tired, but it was just so hilarious.
When his amusement slowed enough for him to breathe, Darryl found himself standing, still chuckling from time to time and then picking up a sizeable chunk of sidewalk as he turned, slipping into an alleyway, stalking through the darkness. Although it was difficult, he silenced his boyish snickers, keeping a grin on his face as he prowled. Desperately his brain shoved at his body, trying to extinguish the thoughts. No. No. Don't. But it was too funny. His eyes widened as he caught the sound of shuffling, of a stray dog, and instantly it piqued his interest, sliding through the murkiness of the black and hiding behind a building to stare at it hungrily.
Malnourished and homeless, the mongrel tore at an old McDonald's bag, pawing at it. It did not have time to lift its head before Darryl was upon it with his rock, laughing hysterically, bloodying his shirt and his hands and his face and around his mouth, thirsty for the blood. His thoughts shrank away, but God, it was so funny.

The Unnamed You of Metaphor

You throw your love like a
hand grenade,
heavy-handed and careless
just hoping to hit your target
with a bang and a grin,
its intentions unclear.
You hide your face like a
wanted man,
shielded from all of the
spear shaped glances that
glint like diamonds that
are so attractive to the
naked eye, alluring.
You spread your wings like a
broken bird,
all tattered and lopsided,
but ignoring the destroyed
flight in favor of instinctive
need for that wind
rustling your feathers.

Everybody can hear it, nobody stops

Ha!
And to think I was worried.
Haha!
How nice it would be to be a mystery.
Hahaha!
It's cool as a fucking fan.

That 25 things on facebook because I know next to no one will read it here

1. I know that nothing can be changed, but god would I love to change it.
2. I am simultaneously talented and inadequate in every talent I pursue; Jack of all trades, master of none. There is always someone better than me.
3. I have a million things to say all at the wrong time. It is starting to bleed through and it is another thing I hate about myself.
4. I love free time but I'm glad I don't have it. I always settle into thought and that is something I've come to dread.
5. I'm writing this on my iPod.
6. I want to wake up dead. To never worry again is the best thing I can think of right now.
7. I always have something up my ass. Never has nothing been bothering me. Every day is another sequence of hours for me to add to that list and solve nothing. I am not the only one with this affliction.
8. I feel no accomplishment, recently.
9. Progress is relative.
10. I am an idiot within myself. I wish I could be perfectly objective and wise about everything.
11. I love dreams. They're like nightly adventures, even when they're tragedies.
12. There is a word bank where, when I hear any of the words from it in any way, it ruins that moment for me. Subsequently, I can no longer listen to much of my ipod.
13. There is only terror.
14. I hate being online or around people reading my blog. I feel like an outsider amidst their thoughts and my words.
15. I need menial tasks to keep my sanity. Like writing the same thought on my paper for hours.
16. I can only eat gummy vitamins. It's pretty cool.
17. I truly believe myself to be fucking retarded, socially.
18. I cannot stand the feeling of lying. Even about small things.
19. There is no feeling like plummeting toward the ground in an airplane, even for less than half a second.
20. I have not felt alive in over a year.
21. I need to go to bed, but I'm not.
22. I hate typing roleplay, but I continue to rp on my phone.
23. Media makes me sad because I wish I could relate to it.
24. I don't know what to do.
25. I'm never tired until I yawn. Oo

Solutions

I feel a little bit out of the loop.
Not like the loop like
people murmuring things to people or
hey did you see what he did at that party last night or
omg inside joke hahahahaha
no, like out of the loop of reality.
Sometimes I'm in the middle of talking and I
suddenly shift into different perspective, watching myself
gesticulate and grin like I always do
except the person doesn't smile and I feel
like I don't know myself anymore
and nothing is right. Maybe it is just a ploy
for attention, but isn't that what
everyone does?
I feel a little bit out of the loop,
like I forget what humor feels like,
or what a smile can do if you control it right.
I feel a little bit like whoever is
plucking my strings, my puppeteer
is also confused. I rock my
head back to look up at them, a grimace on my
wooden face, and their face is like mine,
upset and unknowing.
It is all very sick.

The Rock

"It's just a rock," she said, raising a brow.
The boy picked it up anyway, from the river, turning it over a few times. "Nuh-uh! Look at it! It's one of those cool rocks - it's got something special inside."
She rolled her eyes, pocketing her hands. "It's just a rock."
He stuck his tongue out at her, wading out of the river, holding it up in the sun. It was shiny and purple, striped and fantastic. "It's beautiful!"
"Someone painted it, idiot," she muttered, yanking it from him and turning to a tree. She scraped the side against the harsh bark, and the paint wore off to be a muddy color, one that was completely average and nondescript.
He snatched it back, sticking his tongue out again. "I bet it's still got something cool inside, or no one would've painted it."
"I bet it painted itself," she chuckled, watching as he threw it at another, larger rock. It broke into a few pieces, which he examined.
The girl watched smugly as he stood. "I guess it didn't have anything after all," he laughed after a moment, turning back to her.
"I told you," she teased. "I could tell it wasn't special from the moment you picked it up. Little faker."
And then they left, and the rock truly didn't have anything at all.

Baked Goods Bandit

Like a ghost, residing outside of myself
Slowly shuffling from foot to foot,
staring into space absentmindedly
Not much goes on around me,
but I didn't quite realize that
until I stepped back.

Helpless

There is nothing to be done when
you will never be proud of me.
There is nothing I can do
that will open up your eyes,
nothing I can attempt to watch
the joy well in your gaze.
Over and over and over I struggle
to make you smile and
forget your worries, but
all I see is your nonchalant nod,
your constant persistence that
I am not good enough.
I am not good enough.
I am not good enough.

There is nothing to be done when
I can never please you.
There is nothing I can do
that will bring a grin to your face
without some type of disclaimer
and nothing is surreal.
Every single day is a fight
to keep everybody around me
happy. Period.
'You' is the world, I am the abyss
or so it feels, wrapped up in
melodrama and inconsistencies,
and maybe that's why I'm alone.
I am not good enough.

It's okay to write for yourself

Laughing at Family Guy,
half covered by a blanket,
curled on my bed.
How is it still airing if
I'm the only person left
on Earth?
There is nothing left to fear -
no wars, no greenhouse gases, no
peer pressures, unknown tensions,
societal expectations,
people asking about religion, about
grades, about goals, about smiles and tears.
There is nothing left to fear when
I'm the only person left
on Earth.
There is no one to be pretty for,
no one to worry about or to call or text,
no one to occupy me, but
no reason to hide. No reason to work out,
but no gym memberships to pay,
no log-ins, no questions, no drive-bys,
no drive-thrus, no locked doors,
no one to come when an alarm is triggered.
There is no one to be pretty for when
I'm the only person left
on Earth.

By the Way

Good afternoon.

My name is Gabriel Elder.

You may not know me, but I know you, most certainly. I know your every facet – the way you sigh when you slip into a freshly cleaned bed, the way you fix your hair in the mornings, the way you don’t notice when someone is watching you from an indiscreet corner across the room. I’ve seen you – you are my obsession, my recipient, and I make my words eloquent for you. I washed my hair for you this morning. After all, I took the time to write you this note, didn’t I?

When you see me smiling, know that it is all for you. I relish in our meeting and my mouth waters at the thought. Every morning I don’t have your essence within my grasp, I clench my teeth a little tighter, I close my eyes a little longer. You are my last thought when I sleep and my first thought when I wake up.

No, no, you don’t know me. You can’t know me – yet. You can’t witness the way the afternoon light shines against my hungry, glistening teeth, sparkling white to make you think I am friendly. Wouldn’t want to make a bad first impression, no?

No. Of course not. I want to hold your hand and your beating heart, both at once, if possible. I am so conflicted in everything I do because of you.

I hate you. You are weak, young, and ignorant, and you will certainly not receive this notice kindly.

I love you. I’m wearing my favorite shirt today – for you. It’s blue. I got it on sale.

Perhaps this is all a little confusing. Calculating as I may be, I have failed in one thing: I haven’t told you the purpose of this letter. Oh, by the way, this letter is for you. Whoever’s found it. If it wasn’t for you, you wouldn’t have it in your possession, period. Even now, I’m watching you read it, and my, how I’m laughing.

Right, right, the purpose. I’m a little scatterbrained today! I chuckled at that, too. Did you?

I’ve been assigned by the Myriad to kill you. You don’t know what the Myriad is, and you probably never will. It’s our job to watch you, and not the other way around. Or, my job, anyway.

Look at me, mumbling in fragments all over this page. You captivate me. Can you tell?

God, this is all a failed attempt at warning; a formality. Trust me, if I had the freedom myself, I would sink my talons into you right now, render you into life’s shrapnel, but… I digress. This is all a very regulated process. As a matter of fact, I was assigned to you a full six weeks ago. I have seen you at least once a day, since, but I’ve been biding my time, through paperwork and office agonies, because this isn’t barbarism. I’m warning you now, as formality, as I mentioned before, so that you can pick up the last strings of your life and tie them all neatly together. Don’t worry about avoiding it or anything, because you’re dying one way or another, and my only dilemma is how to smooth it into society’s framework. The media is such a pesky thing.

If you struggle you’ll still die, so don’t bring that into consideration. There’s no fooling the Myriad. Don’t get me wrong, people have tried – valiantly! – and failed. There is nothing redeeming about an incomplete life of failure, by the way. There is no martyrdom in disappearing from the cesspool of life and no triumph in being messily wiped from the slate of the earth.

Did I mention that I love your smile? God, it’s the loveliest thing I’ve seen since…

I didn’t think parting with you would be this hard, but here I am, blathering on. This note is such a mashed jumble of inconsistencies that there’s no saving it at this point.

You’re the most beautiful living thing to be tantalizing me. You have consumed my life for six weeks, dictating my every mood with your every gesture. I am your puppet. I grin when you grin and I suffer when you suffer. I hunger when you sleep. Your every gesture is something new and brilliant in my day and I simply cannot get enough. But, as it appears, you are not incessant. As a matter of fact, and it is fact, you cease quite neatly here shortly. Rather a shame, some would call it, but it is a rebirth in my eyes. You complete me. I cannot wait to get a grip on you, to ingest your ruby essence, but… nevermind. This will all come later. After all this, I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.

You will be ending in twelve hours.

Don’t forget to turn the oven off.

Bullets and Sunshine

Kailey suddenly sat up in the bed, her blue eyes wide with a mixture of alarm and confusion. Something was very, very wrong.
"Nurse!" she called, at a moderate volume at first. It quickly elevated to screaming. "Nurse!"
A lady came bustling in, her portly figure masked in the traditional white uniform. "Yes? Yes?!"
Kailey gripped her bulbous stomach, her breathing quickened by now. "I-I need Mac. Get Mac!"
"Ma'am, he's not-"
"Get Mac!" she shrieked, although her body was naturally frail and her throat burned with the effort of it. Contractions were subtle and small but growing, and she struggled to get comfortable, settling in for the long haul of birth that was sure to come. The nurse had rushed away by this time, alerting every relevant person of the news. Mac was needed, immediately. She was not about to give birth to their baby without him, especially with her illness forcing her life to be on the line for it. She rested back against the pillow, closing her eyes. Please, let him be somewhere nearby. Please, let his most recent obligation have been just a few miles away. Please, let him say goodbye, if he had to.
More nurses rushed in, checking on her and changing her bedpan, doing everything for her except the one thing she needed them to do. "Get Mac," she croaked, over and over again, as sweat collected on her brow and her hands gripped the bars on the bed with a grip of steel. She closed her eyes, her chest heaving. Please, God, let him come quickly.

Fingers

Heavy, heavy fingers
Wandered slowly down the street
With their lonely, lonely humming
There was nobody to greet

So they meandered there, together
Always looking low and high
For somebody else to weather
The intensifying lie

I am

I am

updating my blog, finally, in a
gesture of love, of smiling, of
living continuously, heart beating, and
yes, it is Valentine's Day.

I am

always considering the best and the worst, and
livid yet lax in the moments of pain, and
odors sting my nose, pervading my clothes, and
needless to say I am here every day, and
each word oozes out of my fingers like glue.

I am

seeing the white, black, and blue of the world,
or meeting and grinning at strangers I know, but
really I just want to curl up at home, yet
really I want to meet a soul-mate or two,
yet all I can do is smirk to myself in my room.

I am

always awake while my eyes are closed, on the
verge of a breakdown and breakthrough at once,
erring and sighing through blurry-eyed notes, with
rage in my smile and falseness in my mind, and
anyone but no one could convince me otherwise.
Get your face out of my business, my laptop cord is young, too
easy to shatter and nowhere near stable.

I am

wily and wanton and laughing and musing, no
righteous, rambunctious, regal rewards run rampant,
only a hug here or there with a pat on the back,
nothing to convince me not to stray off track -
greedy grins and sly smirks peer at me from afar.

I am

not a figure skater or a bobsledder
or a skier or an athlete, even, yet my
tv tells me all about my dreams.

I am

saying and saying and saying and saying and
asking and asking and asking and asking and
doing and doing and doing and doing and
needing and needing and needing and needing and
escaping without ever really escaping and
seeing and seeing without opening my eyes and
saying and saying have you ever read sideways?