I could never tell anyone I loved anything that I felt might damage the relationship. I could never tell my father that I hate his drinking problem. I could never say I love you to anyone. I can barely look in the mirror sometimes.
I’m a radical person. I have extreme views, few values.
I blame myself for these behavior traits. As well as my astrological sign.
I had a happy childhood, a beautiful one in fact. I grew up with a good group of friends, went to a good school, got a good education, stayed out of trouble.
Then my mom died when I was seven. I sealed myself up for three years. By 10, I still had my old friends, but everything else I knew was gone. The childhood died early.
I took to things others don’t think about until they are the age I am now, 19. I took up writing, acting, filming.
I attempted to fill the void with these things, as well as material items, material friends, material relationships. I felt that these would be the key to my happiness, as they were when I was younger.
I started smoking weed to dull the pain (was never much of a drinker). For a while, the weed was a gateway drug to happiness. New friends, new material, new routine.
The older I grow, I realize more about myself everyday.
Today, I did not smoke for the first time in a long time. I tried to reconcile with my past, but it’s too soon for that. I realized that I am depressed and no longer happy with the state I have left my body to rot in.
I realized that after the passing of my mother, and my father struggling with his own decisions in life, that I had to take care of myself. Be it, feed, shelter or love myself.
And now, years later, I realized the only person I love, is me. I’m a human, selfish being. I reward myself with other people in a way. I cast my shadow the way everyone else does, so what makes me different?
“Billy, you are an asshole who manipulates people to do your bidding.
You are an imperfect person who can always work at being better. You are easily addicted. You crave attention. You seek it at all times. You are clincally depressed and/or bi-polar/schizophrenic. (Did you know it runs in your family?) You are a voyeur who must explain things in third person to understand and get a kick out of it. You are you and there is no one like you.”
I need to keep going. I need something new. I need someone new. I need to remain focused. I need to will myself towards the long-term goals, and not the instant satisfyers. I need to be honest with everyone around me, including myself. I need to be loved, cradled in arm, and rocked to sleep.
I’m not trying to sound paranoid or anything… it just seems the closer we, and by we I mean the 99% (so to say), draw closer to the Era of Orwell. The 2012 predictions have people scared, several wars have continued for well over a decade now, and now airstrike campaigns are most definatly on the rise. I believe in us as a people, that in our worst moments, we could come together to survive peacefully. But, the fact of the matter is…the mental is fragile. I am afraid of the future.
I have not yet been (I do plan to soon) Occupy Wall Street. The media machine is as evil as any cor(rpution)peration. We are very quickly destroying ourselves and the world we live on. This REVOLUTION should grow and WE THE PEOPLE shoud grab hold of it and create a new start for us all. A new government structure is highly unlikely but, luckily I don’t believe the process is that spoiled. It is the ingredients that have rotted to destroy the recipe. The MELTING POT that is the U.S. has gone bad, I think it’s time for a new batch.
I sit naked in the bathroom on the tile floor, the self-inflicted stab wound bleeds out the broken heart. Oh, how I hate the melodrama! The monotonious monotony misery portrayed, spilled on paper and blog as if the bullys will spare your diginty if you dilute it yourself. I don’t want to want you. You changed everything about me and I’m not sure if I like the person I’ve become. Oh stop being a pussy.
I’m just a phase, a section, a moment. I can’t watch. Change channel.
I held you, spun you in circles. You sent me like a top to ricochet off the wall and waited to see if I’d return like a boomerang. I don’t change. You were right. I’m still skipping across the universe, tremendous speed until I burn in an atmosphere. Make a wish.
I have to go. You should stay. You can mask pain better than I ever could, let run tears and my feet and fears.
Becoming…the side lover, the former lover, the we’ll be friends, flirt, then fuck lover. I don’t want it anymore. I’m tired of being part of the everything. I want to be singular. You said it yourself, you’re tired of the cliches, so am I. I don’t want to be that couple that fights on the dancefloor to be found hours later, drunk, fucking in a storage closet. It makes me nervous how worth it I found it to be hypontized, then how the desire was ignited, and so were the nerves…old passions die hard.
My thoughts have been clumped, clogged, vodka logged, unable to create an epilogue nor dialogue, smile along, attention off, harsh coughs, the transition to Mac from Microsoft; now poetry is easier to broadcast, since the reach is so vast and so fast information circulates and creates and takes it’s own shape, illustrates and partakes, contributes to the bounty of fruit and don’t expire like the half life of uranium. Titanium stubbornness, Enough of this. I refuse to adjust to this, the subject at hand, where I currently stand, I feel stupid, I feel nowhere. I’m neither here nor there nor aware nor scared nor for nor against nor sure of where I’ll be next. I need a motive, a muse, a drive, a purpose, a dream, a vision, a routine, a system, this living needs an inspiration, “an accusation, something to start infatuation. Like an assassination of character!” Shatter all matter, step up batter, who’s badder: The office worker sitting all day in a grey box, high socks, and no rock n roll, eating your soul each day at a time? Or the free; Men on the sea, the monkeys in trees, the birds, the bees, and all those groovy things, girls on swings, flowing in harmony like guitar strings, on backs of dragon’s wings, letting freedom ring, all day, eer day, and how you say…rebels. Rumors can be terrible. New York City, where the girls are pretty and witty, shifty, nifty, beauties and cuties, but sorry, no Snookis. I diverge on a path to explore it all and all I recieve is pair of blue fingernails, digging the dirt that is worth a ship’s sail or the love of the people to whom the emperor they hail. Throw you to the wolfs in the woods they would, if they wanted, they could, and maybe, they should. My defense is that i am gravity, people naturally gravitate, flock to my gravestone, graze in the haze of a man of gravitas. A toast! To the host who boasts that he has the most. Who bites deeper into his fingernails, blue to pink to red, rush of blood to the head. Brain cells dead, who said don’t knock, when they’re be rockin in a bed? They were right. Get knocked cold by the Devil and Absynthe, attacks the abdomen, abbrviates my abilities, sends me spirialing into the abyss, tomorrow marked absent. Oh well, no worry, the world is in a mass state of fury and fire and is ready to explode like a James Dean cartire. I can feel the heat approaching. College cuts cartilege, a cache of grass and some coaching and some coping with toking, hoping for a brighter day. It’ll come in some form, some way. Ok. Excuse me now, I have a mind to mend, mountains to ascend, money to spend, love to lend, letters to pen then send, then sleep in my den, bitter to the bitter end, crashing the wave, my heart is knave, I asked to be saved, but not by you babe.