Wasted energy beyond the perception of gloom,
I carry a large burden upon my shoulders, like a boulder waiting for my spine to collapse,
Though now I seem as if I am without a spine.
I am weakened by the very inkling of depression inside of me,
Yet I cannot seem to cry.

Crying is your mind's way of telling you that you're human.
But I cannot decipher the idea of me grasping any humanized traits,
Since I let my emotions eat away at my own self-empathy.
I lay down in silence,
My insides screaming in pain.

I suppress these urges I get just aching to drive me to madness,
When it is my own person that has to deal with the stress.
I find myself dreaming of dreams that cannot be reached.
I am nearly an adult,
And all I feel like is a naive child,
twiddling his thumbs in his own little world.

I pray that I discover a way that I can feel joyous,
With people that share interests in similarity.
I am a young man with rare characteristics,
Finding such a person would be strenuous.

Uncanny it is for me to speak words like so,
It boggles my mind to uncertainty.
I've cried a lot through my hand,
Not my eyes,
And my poor pencil has grown exhausted from my depression.

She'll kiss a word, covered in blood,
She'll dignify mediocrities aloud,
She gives me motive to blossom,
Into an entity I've long despised.

She isn't much of a salesman,
Though salesmanship is her passion,
Nearly driving herself to oblivion,
I sedate her with words that are preprogrammed.

Like a *** of water and salt,
A patch of Leather and with a yarned lace,
A cup of oil and a splash of vinegar,
We go together as if it's a curse.

To make sense of it would be senseless,
Since senselessness is it's meaning,
A shadow covering a timid silhouette,
It's passion for construction that seems most logical.

Look! I can spell my name:

FRAID
REMORSEFUL
ATYPICAL
NEUROTIC
CAREFUL
IRREGULAR
SMALL

Filmmaking should be an art form, not merely a business.

The creative process should be personal, not impersonal.

Filmmaking should be sentimental, not political.

Performances should be natural, not robotic. They should be authentic, not artificial.

Writing should be truthful, not bogus.

Cinematography should be ambitious, not pretentious.

Premieres should be on a big screen, not a flat screen.

The audience should open up their preferences, not solidify them. They should respect traditions, not belittle them.

Profit should be a reward for hard work, not a motive for it.

Filmmaking should be intoxicating, not grueling.

Credit should be a right, not a luxury.

Ownership should be divided, not bombarded.

Final cuts should be final, not temporary.

The industry should be welcoming, not selective. It should be open, not gated.

Investors should require trust, not demand control.

We should treasure movies, not forget them over time.

Artists should be publicized, not exploited. They should be grateful, not prissy.

Celluloid should be valued, not endangered.

Equipment should last, not outdate within a year.

In a country full of opportunities, why is it so difficult to achieve what you want? Better yet, if you work hard enough, why could you still fail?

Look! I can spell SISTER:

SASSY
IRRATIONAL
SICK
TOXIC
EGOMANIAC
REALLY ******

She’s gonna sing?
I’ll dance.
**** — what a lovely little voice,
Caressing my spirit and shattering my ego.
Her ambiance brings forth the notion,
That one person can be deemed flawless.

Perfectly imperfect,
What a melodic little spirit.
She sings, I dance.
I listen to her words tenderizing my ear drums.
A fool blabbing love that remains unspoken,
When she rips apart all that is entwines me.

I’m a mere note in her tune,
Her concerto of loneliness and dread.
She rehearses too much,
Calculating each vibrato to the tee,
Anticipating a sore throat,
When I’m the only one in the crowd,
And I don’t mind.
I have lozenges.

All I want is to hear her sing,
And for her to watch me dance,
And cheer me on with her lovely voice,
As I sit in my skivvies, front row, center stage,
Like a buffoon with a lack of rhythm in me.

She better keep on singing.
The key may change,
But notes stay the same,
And I’ll be there to back her vocals,
With my frugal, five-dollar guitar.

I’ll always dance to her tune,
I hope she’ll always sing for me.
When she sings,
I ******* dance,
And I pray that she’ll give me an encore.

Sooner or later,
I need to learn how to dance,
A voice like hers can’t go to waste.
A genius composer,
I can never oppose her,
The sound of her music livens me.

She sings,
I dance,
She belts,
I prance,
She laments,
I advance,
To savor,
Our incestuous romance.

Look! I can spell MOTHER:

MANIPULATIVE
OPPRESSING
TOXIC
HATEFUL
EGOTISTICAL
RESENT

Look! I can spell BROTHER:

*******
ROYAL ******
OH, you are also-
TOXIC
HELL’S RULER
EXTREMELY-
*******

I fear that I’ll lose you,
Even though I want you gone.

I want you to stay,
Yet I often contemplate running away.

Does that make me... inhumane?

Have you driven me insane?
Or is that my head talking?
You’re the one who got me walking,
Now, here I am doing all of this balking.

We’re facing a scare, scarier than painless death.
We’re facing your suffering, promoting your very last breath.

I want you to leave me be,
But not to die prematurely.
Please don’t leave me,
I’m too young to bury,
The one thing that created me.

Dreaming of what was,
Instead of what will be.
A night with my ol' Scottish friend,
Bluer than green as my heart mimics my liver,
Screaming to be cleansed of the poisons I give 'em,
To feel something other than remorse.
Pain is weakness leaving my tear ducts,
Mumbling some sort of ironic phrase,
Playing it Bogart as I sit in my own stink,
Separate from this mediocre world,
If my own world were isolated from thought,
Or If thought were a composition of Chopin.
Sweating the aged rye as it coats my ability to *******,
I'll light another cigarette for kicks,
Since death by smoke seems more charming,
Than dying of a broken heart.
I'll kiss the lemon twist,
Relevant to the aches I've felt.
Submerging the sourness in a pool of cheap,
Since I can't afford the good stuff.

Focus in,
Focus up,
Focus on…
What?

Can’t sit still,
Can’t pay any mind,
Nothing stimulates,
This third eye blind.

Can’t lay down to sleep,
Can’t bury my face in food,
Pick it up and put it down,
My inattentiveness seems crude.

So much to do,
So little I maintain,
The energy to focus up,
Too much adulthood hurts my brain.