White Padded Walls, Pills, and Clocks.

I can't recall the moment when I became so afraid of the world. But here I am now. Alone. Afraid. Paranoid android. Sure, every moment in my life is a realization: how small of a fish I am in such a large despondent and esoteric sea or how little I know, but when did I become the timid tiger, afraid to tackle the gazelle? These machines we have made are death traps. Life is a huge death trap. Mother nature and the course of life already have their mines set and charged, but to add more, we all pick a side and play the game of survival. Sure, it's no way to live life, hiding indoors, or isolated on a private island, because some inevitable disease, disaster, or act of devastation will ultimately consume you when the clock ticks dooms day and the fates cut the thread. I don't wish I was naive. I believe in order to appreciate life and people around us there needs to be knowledge, innate or learned, that life is fragile. But maybe that's why I so inherently search for a companion. The thing of it is, I am sure that there are several people who can fit the role. But when the years have added up and I'm lying on a chair looking out onto the west coast shoreline at a sunset that will still blow my mind away, despite years of watching sunsets, I wanna know with absolute certainty that it is my destiny to be in love with that particular person. God, people are so concerned with the material possessions of the world and the statuses they obtain, but we should be more concerned with how we feel and how people feel. One day all the literature, all the history, all the everything will be gone. And all we will have left is a possible afterlife, if such a thing exists. And there's no possible way material possessions in this life will correlate to how happy or extravagant our life might be in the vast beyond.

prose of a sad soul

The music fills me seepin' into cracks and craters

I'm nothing but a loser, a fornicator,

a sinner a downer, no wait i'm a drowner,

Im alone in a battle, uphill don't tattle

you can't ask the man to save my soul

only the righteous or rather the whole

to the rest of my puzzle

to which i'm simply a piece

and this world is only art to an artist, we are his masterpiece

we're only here to make deals

there is no privacy

we are mice in a cage

but maybe we are better off

running on this planet sized wheel

for the cheese

glossy eyes full of rage.

spinning miles and miles per hour

perhaps the eyes just want the power

they're betting on the winner

and behind the clock's shadow of the tower

the underdog's hour

the 15 minutes of fame

i'll devour any opposition

but thats my disposition

i'll take my position

with the right ammunition

your flesh will meet your maker

we all know you're a faker

so don't be such a limper

we all see through your temper.

F*CK DREAMS

Waiting for some unrealistic revelation to take place is comparable to waiting for wings to grow from our backs or gills to slit open in our necks. Sure, evolutionary advances, scientific debauchery, or even elegantly crafted illusions might lead the naive to accept such a miracle. But to those with perhaps an ounce of cynicism we find the world replete with let-downs. Our candor gets us only so far and our aloofness simply circumnavigates our vessel of hope back into poignant waters.