It's been a long and strange trip. but don't fret - it isn't yet at the end point. I've always loved the morning, but I'm far from a morning person. Which seems pretty symbolic to me, but I'm an English major so it's kind of my job to be overly analytic. The hardest part about growing up is keeping track of who you are, and trying to figure out if who you are going to be matches with who you want to be. The smell old Bukowski's ashtray clings to my clothes. and everything that I don't have the courage to say out loud can be seen in my eyes and the lines of my face. And I know this will sound absolutely ******* ridiculous - but in modern society it's hard to be a man. gone are the days of Clint Eastwood kicking *** and taking names. All we have now are morons and ****** bags. I read somewhere that we are the quitting generation, and that ****** me off. Because the faults of the current generation are always due to the previous generation. But people are ******* by nature who can't take responsibility when their plants begin to wilt. And my Dad quit on me - not the other way around. And I know that this probably isn't fun to read - but frankly I don't give a ****. This isn't something which is going to be published - more so some much needed venting space. And I'm trying to figure out how to bring this thick wall of rambling text to an end, but endings don't really exist. Just unknown places which can not be followed. so instead of assaulting your eyes and your poetic sensibilities for another ten lines I will say this: If you read this and didn't immediately think of killing me or yourself, then thank you. If you did, then feel free to pretend I never had the gall to write such an ugly, boring, self-indulgent piece. And I hope you all have a nice a day

the world is wrapped in plastic
and our feelings can be found
through a binary language
in the internet web of deceit
and the only thing we feel strongly about
is our own apathy
and maybe our phones
the culture's obsession with Zombies
makes sense if art mirrors life
we walk around looking through empty glass eyes
and make fake relationships
with people
who barely even exist
we grow up
and fill the shoes
which were left for us
at different points
on our journeys
generations of Russian nesting dolls
the few of us who want to live
are drowned in debt and ***** looks
and Jesus Christ
one day we'll be in charge
of the entire ******* planet
just think about that

When I was still a young kid
following dad's job all over England
My granddad died
and I could only have been eight or nine
but I remember my Mum told me
sitting on the windowsill
of that old house I miss so much
"Do you see that star up there Harry?"
I followed the vector of her finger
gazing up to a diamond cluster sky
because this was the sticks
so the stars came out in numbers
But I thought I saw the star she was pointing at
I nodded
"That star is your granddad
there's a star up there for everybody."

Now being a young boy
I of course took this as the whole truth
and now that I'm a slightly less young boy
I figure
why can't it be the truth
Standing in the vast field
that was my back yard
I remember talking up at the night sky
Talking to granddad
knowing he was too far away for me to hear him
I just wanted to know if he was okay
and what it was like being a star
and maybe I will never get my answer
I just hope that when I go
when you're feeling lost
you can look up
at the stars in the sky
and I can tell you
that everything is going to be
just fine

It was your birthday yesterday
You would have turned 19
I would have gone to your party
and we would have been drunk
girls would be kissing you
and you would be king
but we put you in the ground
two and a half years ago
-

The heart is a machine.
It has valves and pumps, little tubes and wires.
It pushes life roughly through my veins, scraping by along my insides,
too full of something barely contained.
And I feel it yelling at me constantly, a day to day screech in my chest.
"You must carry on! You must feed me oxygen and suffer while I beat the life into you!"
What cruel joke is this?
This machine betrays me so.
It betrayed me to you.
It sold me out, all my secrets and desires barefaced in your hands.
And all for a smile. And then a laugh. And then a kiss.
That kiss was the end of me.
I dared it to go, I told it
"Once you go down that road, don't you dare come back."
It never did.
I've been without my machine for quite sometime now.
It ran headlong into your arms and I have no thought of how to coax it back.
Every day I struggle with these invisible strings,
tugging as I walk to my classes,
tugging as I stumble up stairs
and say hello to people I know.
I'm fighting you. I'm tired of fighting you.
I just want my turn.
Let me fall in your arms.
Let me have you.

Mr. Invincible
Mr. Unkillable
Mr. just walks away
I wish I knew the exact percent
of how close I came to death
or how close I came to ******
it seems as if
there is a God out there somewhere
who had different plans for me
The EMT's were shocked
by how little was wrong with me
and I signed the refusal form
and walked back out into the night
Mr. Invincible
but for how long?