Saturday, March 29, 2008


I’m tired. I’m very tired. I realized yesterday how I’m alone. I was sitting at a restaurant, Perkins… It was late. I was with a bunch of friends. We were talking…they were talking. I wasn’t. I’m not even sure what they were talking about, I was so disconnected. But I could hear everything, I was listening. I remember Jack speaking, his tone was heavy. I could hear his silverware clinging against the plate. Behind me, the waitress taking the order of the couple a few booths away; her pin penetrating the paper. But they were just sounds. Sounds without purpose. I remember picking up a fork to eat… I don’t even remember what I ate, or if I ate at all. But I could feel the fork. I could feel the tension in my wrist… cutting into the food. If there was food. It was my wrist, my hand, my fingers… touching and controlling the fork, but at the same time it wasn’t. They weren’t mine. They were just apart of this body, that moved just to move.

Monday, March 17, 2008

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Towards the End

I turn on my cell, and I hope it’ll ring or beep or whatever saying you’ve got a new message. And I go to listen to that message hoping it’s her voice I hear. Asking “how things are,” “what’s up,” “how was your weekend.” So I have reason to call her. Why I need a reason I don’t know. But then I go to return her call and I pray she doesn’t answer.

Friday, February 22, 2008


I have 3 days left. 3 days in this tomb. After the 3rd day, I will have stripped myself to a blank canvas. Not a white canvas. A blank canvas. A clear canvas ready to be painted. Painted by words. Only dialogue. Only phrases of purple, yellow, and green. Most certainly green. Green like envy. Green like greed. Green like lust. I lust for these 3 days. 3 final days. 3 days: a Friday, a Saturday, and a Sunday. Monday is my death. Monday is my beginning. Monday is 3 days from now.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

When I Sleep

Grandpa's Garden

There is a weed in Grandpa’s garden.
I tended to it. Now the gate is locked.
There is still a weed in Grandpa’s garden.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

Empty Eyes of a Dreamer

His eyes are old and he’s only twenty one. Such beautiful eyes he could have, if only... I remember when his eyes were beautiful. Such beautiful eyes they were; an azure blue. They held the dreams of a prince. But those dreams have turned to nightmares; demons scratching and clawing at the walls of his mind. He is now a vessel; a sad host of horrible orchestrated screams.