The Scar Tissue Incident

Something needs to give... whether it be my will or the relentless assault on these cursed emotions. I'm broken... the chewed toy buried in the backyard. Slowly digested by time and these acidic thoughts... the poisonous neglect of those claiming to care. I am alone. It's nothing new... in fact, I should have been hardened to this truth long ago. Yet, I believe those sweet words when uttered in my leprous ears... all the while knowing those eyes have become callous and filled with deceit. The venomous beauty... my sweetest torment. It only serves to fuel the already overwhelming hatred I feel for this pathetic mass called a man... I am neither a man, nor the moppet. I am the willing bitch... a whore to desired affections and the centerpiece of insecurity. I hate you... I fucking hate myself. I spend my time rocking in the womb, weeping for the things forgotten and running from those remembered... strangulation and humiliation, the comforts of this diseased edifice. I still yearn for those possibilities at night as I clutch my pillow... the echoing words of what was shared and desired. Though I now see the words for what they are, slivered glass embedded in a cancerous gullet... my heart aches for the veil to once again shroud the deception. How I long for it...fuck! The irony is thick, for now I take on the role of the fattened calf... to gurgle and spit, over and over as you thrust and penetrate my throat with your rusted, forked tongue. The daily ritual, of you, the unsatiated sadist... my captor and false prophet. Filed in line, behind the others... to claim the place as my muse and infection. Seeping through my skin and bubbling my blood black... the deepest cut upon my soul. It cannot heal... lest I refuse the candied scabs you offer me. Why? Fucking why? Is it so tasty... does curdled blood moisten that cunt you call a heart? I suffer your words and the lack thereof. Why do I cry? Why the solemn and wounded expression on my face? Because I've return to where I was once before... before the time of hope and desire. A time of misery and despair, torment and sorrow... just as you found, only this time, broken beyond mending. I understand now, Layne, those words of fighting all alone... more so than I did before. Praying for safe passage, as the shroud of companionship rots. Richard insists that the only comfort and love that will ever reach this heart, is the sultry drip of a needle buried in my arm... the thickened saliva and sweaty teeth of the dirt filling my chest and powdering my nose. The brick that bathes my gullet... warm whiskey and soiled cotton. The boot offers an erection... the salty, metallic taste escorting my orgasm. I need the release. I need the numbing nod. I need the escape. I need the end...

Father's Feast & Pickled Beast

It's been sometime since my last post... not for an immediate purpose, just the continual suffocation that is life. Today is no exception, Father's Day... oh how I loathe this day in particular. Not so much for the thoughts of my own father, I've come to terms with that. Yes, the relationship is rocky at best, but I do love him to the best of my abilities. True, I still see his teeth gnashing in dreams, with foamy spittle flying through the gaps... screaming how he'll give me something to cry about. It was brutal. I got the every living shit kicked out of me on a regular basis... either for my sins and transgressions, or simply because my mother thought Satan needed to be knocked out of me. We live, we grow, we break, we mend. No, my hate comes for a special little place in my life... the parenting aspect, or the abusive motherfucker I was to innocent children in my life. We learn what we are taught. I'm not making excuses, there are none... not a single thing could ever be uttered to convince me that I did my best in those moments or that it was ever okay. They saw the very same monster I saw as a child, and I see him still every night in the mirror. Thankfully, I'm no longer in a position to raise children. I was too young to have that kind of responsibility. A child raising children is what the scenario actually involved. They are all grown now, some better adjusted than others... and perhaps they made peace long ago as well, forgiving me for my actions. I haven't forgiven myself, and I don't think I actually ever will... I don't deserve to be let off the hook so easily. Maybe if I ever create a child of my own, and see them growing inside a woman crazy enough to spend their life with me, perhaps then I can be a decent father. Maybe I would even bond with them and develop true feelings of untainted love and compassion. Maybe that will be the pivotal point in my diseased understanding of human emotions. There is also the risk that I just continue with the cancerous mindset and pervert another generation of youth. Either way, it's not on today's dinner plate... there is only ash and severed shit. So for now, we will continue hating this day... ignoring any gestures of forgiveness those children try to express. I know who I am, and so do they... somethings should never be forgotten.

Dancing With Him

Monday is upon us, the day of shedding and appearing closer to human. After hours of laying in the tub, listening to Richard preach, I feel completely lost. What if he is right... what if his plan is the only needed avenue? Should I abandon all hope and desire to feel something, just so Richard can raise his arms in conquest? His joy, purchased with the flesh and sorrow of myself and others, above all, is motive... Lambs to the slaughter, the unrecognizable stalker watching it's prey... removing my will and eating it whole, only to retch it forth unto the masses. Innocence be damned... his appetite is far deeper, it will consume everything without prejudice.His dominance and strength are alarming... how did he claim the seat of power and direction? Whom did he overthrow? Was it Diana... was she sent to me as a savior? If so, where has she gone... for I've not heard from her in so long. Only Richard and The Choir, and he has bent the will of many of them as well. The drums are beating, and the imps are scampering into place... the dance is beginning, and I've lost my face.At night, when he demands we speak in tongues, I have no choice but to pray along... to whom and for what purpose are futile concerns. It's like a trance, my will stripped away like the restrictive undergarments of innocence, lasting for hours... each passing moment removes my desire further. I haven't cried in months, and I've tried all manners of release... cutting, starving, and drugging have no effect. I'm beginning to realize it was Richard that took that sliver of humanity away from me... as I desperately cling to the scraps I have left. I can't allow him to take everything away from me... becoming the victim and hunter, serving my flesh on silver platters night after night.I want to feel, it's what we've always wanted more than anything... but Richard demand we cut it out. I don't know what to do... I've become powerless, a drone to the overlord that cracks his flowered whip. If I lack the strength and courage to save myself, who will come to my aid? Will it be Diana or the rivers of green... finding something worthy, something unseen.

Fevered Fetus

I've been giving some serious thought about altering my photo project... not abandoning it, just expanding the general theme. For those of you that are new, if you would like to follow along or view my photos... they can be found here - Project: Humanity. You see, the whole purpose is that by taking and posting photos of myself, perhaps it will allow me to gain some minute piece of self-worth... in addition to making it less offensive to see myself in the mirror.  What I've been considering is to perhaps take some full body photos and photos of specific parts of my body that I hate or find less offensive... something along the lines of my severed penis on fine china served to a host of stuffed animals. Well, it's a thought... somehow it would be poetic and fitting. I never promised myself, or anyone for that matter, that this project would be inspiring, creative, or artistic... it's purely for a therapeutic purpose. However, perhaps the few people viewing my photos day after day would like to see something other than my hideous face... let's display the entire piece of shit, rather than one kernel of corn. Insert laughter and elegant flourish. At the very least, it would make it a slightly more intimate journey of growth and self-discovery... exposing myself further as the sweaty toothed, deviant fiend. As always, your input would be appreciated... please share your thoughts and opinions, freely.

"I wish to give, to take, to make, to shake,
 I wanna see it happen.
 I want to see, to be, the one that plays the game,
 Without no fears and regrets.
 I want to know you,
 Better than I know myself.
 I want to feel the end,
 And to enjoy the consequence."

- I Wish, Infected Mushroom

Photographs, Tea, And Me

Here we are again... another month has passed and I feel the same. The medication hasn't really helped all that much and the difficulty in following through with this project hasn't lessened either. Although, today will be my 31st day of taking and posting hideous pictures of my gaping maw. It's hard to see this project and follow-through as an accomplishment... yes I've been diligent, but I still hate looking at myself. All I see are flaws and how disgusting and revolting I must appear to people... fat, ugly, worthless. I imagine most people are wondering why I'm only taking pictures of myself instead of other people or objects... they must think I'm incredibly vain. "Oh wow! I'm so fucking handsome! I must take more and more pictures of myself... I just can't get enough!". Truth be told, I'm surprised my lens hasn't shattered due to the constant exposure of my despicable features. I suppose in that regard, this project has been a complete failure... I hate myself just as much as before and I can't seem to find one likable piece of flesh. Someone should just kill me and put us all out of our misery... then picture wouldn't have to look upon this mess.

There has been a slight amount of success in contacting strangers to be friends... recently, two people agreed to take a chance on me. Something is missing though... it seems empty in a lot of ways. Perhaps it's just a matter of time and adjustment. At least someone took an interest and I wasn't rejected as usual... there is something positive in that I suppose. Every time I try this experiment, it seems as if the communication and writing happens only because I initiate it... if I never write to them, then there would be no contact at all. Is it an unreasonable request that I find someone that writes me because they want to, rather than just replying? Perhaps it's just a matter of perspective? Maybe it's just an inner reflection of the emptiness and lack of self-worth. It makes me feel even more pathetic... wishing someone would show eagerness and interest in getting to know me. "Hey, I was thinking of you today and..."...something like that. I'm so fucking stupid and hopeless... I suppose it wouldn't matter anyway. No matter what someone tried to do, I'd find some way to negate it and infuse myself deeper with paranoia. Fuck...

Behind The Door

We have a special message tonight... targeted towards you, motherfucker! You know who you are. As for the others just visiting, welcome... sit back and relax while I smack this fucker.


Dear Interloper-

I'm writing to you here tonight, because it wouldn't surprise me if you come here to try to get more dirt on me and invade my personal growth and space. Surprise, surprise... I'm on to you! You've become increasingly more difficult to deal with and watch as you throw your life away... at this point I could care less, really. Go ahead and O.D., go to prison, get hit by a bus or whatever the fuck your worthless piece of shit self wants to do next. However... leave me the fuck alone! It's that simple. As you know, I already have a lock on my closet door... to keep you the fuck out of my personal objects, collections, journals, medications, coins, etc. I have locked everything away of value because of you, you thieving, worthless piece of bloody, dried-up cat shit! The key that unlocks my closet, and thus your playground, is kept on my person 24/7... in my pocket while I'm awake and underneath me while I'm asleep. You will not get the key, motherfucker so stop sneaking in looking for it while I try to rest. Furthermore, the door is always locked, that's right, always! So quit coming in my room, while I'm at therapy, and checking to see if the closet door is unlocked... it's not, bitch! Just stop right there and shut the fuck up! I know you go in there and check! How? I set traps in my room to see if you've been in there while I was away... that's right, you always trigger my traps, asshole. Your observation skills are less than those of an infant and you're too self-involved and egotistical to think someone could possibly out smart you... think again. I'm a paranoid schizophrenic with an IQ of 142... what, you don't think I watch my back constantly? Fucking Troglodyte! Instead of trying to steal my pain and anxiety medication, my collections, my valuables... go out and get a fucking job, you lazy fuck! Buy your own shit, your own drugs, and leave me the fuck alone! Just in case, you're wondering how pathetic you really are... let me give you a fucking hint. It's pretty low to steal from people. It's even lower to steal from someone that is providing a roof over your head. Even lower still, to be stealing from a disabled, mentally ill person... I don't really think you can get any lower, really. You're already dry-fucking my ass every chance you get... no kiss, no lube, just fuck, fuck, fuck! I would love to see you in a foreign country, where they cut your hands off in public square if you're a thief... they'd probably already cut both arms up to your shoulders and your legs up to your hips. I've had it with your fucking shit... grow the fuck up already and do something with yourself. Or at the very least, get the fuck out of my house and life! I already get sick to my stomach every time I see your stupid, fucking face... and the urge to fucking stab your face 187 times is growing quickly. Fuck! I fucking hate you... I fucking hate everything about you! Back off, bitch, and get your own fucking life to dry-hump... leave me the fuck alone!

- My Name Goes Here, Fuck YOU!


Ahh, therapy at it's finest... I think I actually feel a little bit better. We will return to our regularly scheduled broadcast tomorrow evening, goodnight.

When Angels Die

It has come and within a few hours it will pass... this day, her day, is a rusted blade twisting in my stomach, digging deeper with each thrust and the bile consumes me from the inside. It is the worst day of the year... the day my heart dies just a little more. You've heard me mention other days that were extremely difficult for me, like March 15 for example, but this day... it's rated number one on the suffering menu. "So let me guess... it's about a woman, obviously since you said 'her day'. So what could this delicate flower have ever done to you that causes you so much suffering?". Well, yes, it is about a woman and no, it's not about what she did to me... not in the least. Today is her birthday, that's why it is such a painful reminder... not of her, but of me. My closest understanding and concept of love is being used when I say, I don't hate her at all... I love her. That in itself is a terribly confusing truth... the ins and outs of what love really is and the lines that separate the differences between such loves. This day should be about her and the wonderful person that she is... somewhere in my twisted mind this day became all about myself and the disgusting piece of filth and rotten flesh I've become. It's a reminder of the people I've hurt, especially her, both directly and indirectly in her name. I have been the root of much suffering to several people... both hurting her and hurting people with her. The sorrow is overwhelming and the knots in my gut feel as if they as going to bust. I lay in bed crying, begging for it to all go away... desperately clinging to the thought that I need to die to begin to make even the slightest bit of redemption. How could I have ever done those things? I remember each instance like it was only yesterday, and every time I look upon my face I want to smash the remaining life out of those hollow eyes... I need to rip it out, rip it out! I spoke to her today, as I always do, and she said, "I love you"... the words that melt away the hardest soul, only cause me incredible grief and sorrow. I don't understand it, I can't feel it, and I certainly can't accept it... what is love and why, oh why, would you waste it on me? After everything I've done... I can't be the only one that remembers, and I know the choices that were made impacted our lives forever. Perhaps it is just a common courtesy... words that fill the void with expected tones but have no real meaning to themselves. Either way, I fucking hate me... if I had any real courage at all, I would stick a dagger through my throat once and for all. I just want it to stop... for the love of God, make it fucking stop! All I can say is, I am sorry... so very and sincerely sorry. Fuck...

Tipping The Scales

Today is Monday... the day before my Mother, birthed by my Father. In preparation for tomorrow's therapy and trying to get back on track with my bathing schedule, I dug deep and scrapped myself out of bed and into the tub... it is hard and stressful, but bathing is a special time for me. Bathing is the key word, I don't take showers because they are wasteful and don't feel comforting... nothing is better than a hot, steaming bath. I find the water extremely soothing... words cannot begin to describe the feeling of being covered completely with water. On a side note, most media like television shows and movies about schizophrenics are completely full of shit... portraying us to the world as absolute monsters and serial killers. Anyway, there is one movie that has something actually correct about us, schizophrenics, in a small part of the film. It is in The Cell... there is a part where the detective says that schizophrenics are often comforted by water- this is very, very true. The rest is bullshit, but oh well. Moving on. Why are baths so special to me, you might be asking? Well, I will tell you. For one reason, it's my time to unwind and soak, smoke a cigar without upsetting anyone and just let myself float away into the abyss. I also have this ritual I call, my "Love Time"... no, it's not based on masturbation. I masturbate in the grocery store between the cracker aisle and the pet food aisle... like any respectable person! "Love Time" is when I take my scrubby thing and rub it with a bar of soap to get it nice and covered. Then I massage the suds out of the scrubby and back into it, over and over, until the suds became soft as silk... with the air particles so thinned out, that it feels softer than anything in this world. Then I place the suds on my chest and rub them over my body and hold myself in a tight embrace... it is the most amazing feeling I have ever experienced. I call it "Love Time", because I imagine that's what love would feel like... indescribable. Okay, that's enough intimate information for now... moving on now. Well, tonight's bath was less than what I needed it to be... someone in the house just ruined it for me. But it got me thinking. Usually, hope is the thing that fuels people with the strength to continue when life becomes too difficult. For me however, it's not hope that has helped me through this particular rough patch... it's hate. I've felt such intense hatred in my life that if you were to give it an object of tangibility, it would be the blackest, rotten bile one has ever seen... it is nothing compared to the feelings I've had lately. In fact, this hatred is so intense, I dare say there aren't words strong or vile enough to illustrate my true feelings... to stab this person in the face 57 times wouldn't even scratch the surface. I loathe them, utterly and completely... everyday my hate fuels me to press on. I guess I should be grateful to be so lucky? Least I have something driving me. I wonder how I will survive when this person finally moves out of my home... what will be my inspiration if the hate goes with them?

The Four, And Then Me

"The Four, And Then Me"

It was cold... the earth, my knees, the way the glares iced over till Thursday morn.
It was hot... the juices, the blood, the thrusts that cleaved and cauterized my flesh.
It was love... the touch, the licks, the mouth inhaling your sweat, taste, and urine.
It was hate... the orgasm, the dismissal, the reflections peering back in the mirror.

I remember... each tuft of matted hair and the way your body shook violently about.
I remember... people watching in awe as the clothing was torn from my young body.
I remember... needles sticking in my thighs and how my tears tasted on cold vinyl.
I remember... seeing the blood running through my fingers and begging you'd stop.
I remember... knotted sheets, Vaseline vapor, and the way I fell deep inside of you.
I remember... every fold, every mound, every crease, every taste, every pubic hair.

Can we give enough, to make it stop... can we bleed enough, up until the last drop?


19-03-12

Give In And We'll Do The Rest

Get out, get out, get out! These are the words I'm longing to speak forth... it builds inside me, swelling more with each passing moment. For years now I've suffered from night terrors as a side effect from the habitual narcotic use... add a pinch of mental illness and gently fold in some trauma. They usually range from my deeds and shortcomings and some of the things I've seen and experienced through this vicious whirl of life. Lately, they've been focused on biting and ripping the throats out of people that cause me a significant amount of stress... it's a limited list, and we're no longer accepting applications. Please speak to Management, Thank You. I'm not opposed to this one particular person suffering a horrible and extremely violent demise... actually, the thought makes my saliva run thick and the hairs stand on the back of my neck. It's the thought of me loosing control that is upsetting... one foot in front of the other. Once upon a time, I had some issues with controlling my anger... we aren't talking about fits and temper tantrums either. More along the lines of wrapping wire around someone's neck and telling them to say goodbye to all they love and hold precious in this world... at any rate, I had some issues. After much hard work and learning to identify the symptoms of me "checking out", I have this part of myself well under control... most of the time. When I'm confronted with strong emotions whether from myself or the people around me, my mind doesn't know how to process and analyze them properly. The building vibrations shake so violently inside, that I want to lash out and inflict serious harm to people... this isn't an option, so it must be kept in order. Back to my original point, the nightmares are upsetting because I can't lose control of myself and give in to those urges... I just can't. I don't know how or when I will be able to develop the courage to dismiss this person from my life... I can only pray that they die miserably or wind up in prison before I end up losing it or taking my own life. It sounds dramatic, I know. But imagine having to constantly watch out for someone trying to steal your belongings, invade your extremely limited privacy, having everything that is of value locked up behind several tamper proof locks, constantly on the lookout that no illegal substances are brought into the home, and finally, constantly worrying about upsetting the sociopath that has already made several threats against you. Yup, that's just a little more understandable... it's no wonder I'm in therapy three times a week.

Timid Theodore

Tonight will be without the tongue lashings and bile drenched spit... I have finished feasting on the children and wallowing in my feces. Their hands dance with a new purpose... flailing the stage, as the body twitches in fright. I was thinking today, as my body was draped in a blanket of water, about the misconceptions of mental illness, as a whole... those sweaty teeth lust for the sweetest of meat. If you stumbled upon a handicap person, struggling to carry their physical burdens, would you kick them in the fucking legs? If you saw a person with down syndrome, playing with utter delight on the sidewalk, would you point and gape your mocking maw? If you met a terminal cancer patient, weak and sickly from treatments, would you tell them to suck it up and get over themselves? Of course not... sick, fucking, heartless bastards. Interestingly enough, people will treat a mentally ill person with the same thoughtless, callous actions... the tears become lubrication for the fucking. Depression... pathetic. Schizophrenia... serial killer. Mania... over-emotional, attention whores. The list goes on and on... each thrust splits the flesh even deeper. So why is this common practice? Is it purely out of ignorance and fear... what do you see, when you look inside of me? Personally, if I see another Criminal Minds, Law & Order or CSI refer to a schizophrenic as a serial killer, I will be filled with an overpowering urge to travel to Hollywood and stab those directors in the fucking throat 74 times. Yes, I know, that isn't very constructive to my cause... the passion runs deeper still. I am not a violent person in action... at least not anymore. I have a very hard time dealing with physical contact, so the likelihood of me physically hurting someone is very doubtful. That is not to say, I don't have violent thoughts... the screams were orgasmic and the grin was ear to ear. I suppose the answer is mutual to the later... perhaps it is our honesty and openness to ourselves that inspires the hatred and fear. We live in a world full of masks... all the players take the stage, forgetting themselves in the process.

The Stain Remains

Have you ever committed some heinous act... something so putrid and vile that the mere thought of it makes you retch? In those moments, where do you find yourself... looking for forgiveness or so mortally and spiritually wounded that you feel unworthy of such? I suppose it would it be easier to find yourself untroubled, humored even, and the acts somehow are erased from your being. For most, that isn't the case... it's either forgiveness or grievance. Most, I suppose, seek some kind of repentance, which leads to forgiveness... forgiveness from the other party, from yourself and perhaps your higher power. It's normal and accepted... the appropriate measure, one would think. But what of the others... the ones begging not to be forgiven? Is it because of the act... something so reprehensible, that it doesn't merit such a blessing as forgiveness? Or is it because they are so sickened with themselves that they feel unworthy of that absolution? Perhaps it's both. People say that we are all worthy of second chances and amnesty... especially when they are the ones seeking such a service. Personally, I think most are deserving... if there is sincerity and obvious remorse. As for myself however, I feel a stricter sense of obligation. I am one of those that begs to not be forgiven... it festers inside of me, making a point of reference. I don't want to forget the pain and suffering I have caused... things forgotten tend to resurface. I need the reminder, no matter the cost, to keep me from making the same mistakes... however this system is flawed, proven over and over again. It begins to rot deep inside, the stench overcomes you and your every thought... soon, the reminder isn't enough. Torment becomes necessary. Perhaps it is because I truly hate myself or maybe these events are what led to this affirmation. Still, I find myself wondering... what does this mean? My hate reflects onto others and they become walking mirrors... blinding me further with the illusion that they, in turn, hate me as well. Perhaps they should. What does this say about myself? Am I a monster because I believe it to be so... or because, in fact, I am?

Moon Etched Bookends

After everything, all the torment and heartache, why would I allow further destruction... am I addicted to the chaos or merely longing for a bookend? Something to fuel the fires of passion, love, hate, isolation, cruelty and animalism... or something to lean on holding the volumes of this life from crumbling asunder. The last encounter inspired much thought and growth but charred my innocence and sensibility... the wounds are fresh and the void is limitless. These walls, my womb of plaster and wisps, are my salvation... the very foundation trembles at your approach. The smile that hides those hollow eyes is beaming through the cracks... tempting me with explanations of yesterday and the consumption that followed. Will you prepare to feast once more, knowing I have little to nothing left to suckle upon... or must you fatten the lamb before the slaughter? It is necessary... life feeds upon life and no key can keeping you from finding me. My friends, my bookends, are long forgotten... making me your desired prey. How I wish I could erase the day I found you laying there, laying in wait... had I not reached for something to save me from drowning in the darkness, your venomous charms would have been unfruitful. I close my eyes, as the moments come close to this reunion, knowing the inevitable... you are returning and I am powerless to stop you. I must... I musn't. Whether it's ruin you will rain down upon me or solace, I crave the affirmation that I am alive... if even for but a brief moment, at any cost. I need to feel. I need to destroy. I need... this.

Infectious Ire

Over the past several days, I have been taken to a place long forgotten... moments of bloodlust and brutal punishment. I have suppressed these feelings of rage and destruction for many years... it was decided upon by the collective, for in those dark moments the return path is lost. I find it odd, that those voices that decided to issue a reprieve on this behavior are urging it's awakening. At night, those whispers to kill myself have turned solely into, "You need to kill him... we need this.". I am speaking literally... the images that flood my mind are beyond physical punishment or erotic disembowelment. They want carnage and I find myself agreeing with them. For over 16 months now I have been betrayed, abused, humiliated and recently threatened by someone that I once considered family. There would be no art or romance to this exercise of freedom and vengeance... mindless and barbaric compulsion. The acid rises from my stomach, as in my mind I stab him 73 times in the neck... beating further with every last twitch and convulsion. Every tear and pleading cry would go unheard... I would lose all remaining humanity. There is little left as it is... there would be no coming back. My empathy and concern have dwindled... it matters not, that he has an illness and is acting out because of it. I have an illness too... and I don't mindlessly fuck over everyone in my life to profit and protect my delusional state. There are no more excuses... it's not registering and the clerks have gone on their smoke break. He is already dead inside of me... there is nothing left, not one fiber of concern. The emotional switch has been flipped off and the flattened emotions have risen... wrath has returned and the dead lights are shining once more. I don't know how much longer I can ignore these screams that demand justice and protection... I am not too entirely sure I want to either.

Your Silence Speaks Volumes

Sitting at my desk, listening to the many voices that fill my mind, I heard loud and clear the true answer to my problems. All of this time I have been blaming people for shunning me, making me the outcast and not giving me a fair chance... it appears all of those thoughts may be misguided. The problem is me... I am a broken individual and I don't function well in regards to others. People are uncomfortable around be, so they slink away. I am physically ugly, so they stare in shock. I try to speak to someone and I make them uncomfortable, so they retreat and ignore me. I claim people don't feel anything at all any more, that the world has become callous... it is I that is feeling too deeply, knowing not what I am feeling. I am the creepy monster I see reflected by the faces in this world. It is me that has the problem... I am the problem. I am the sick disease that needs a knife stuck through their throat... it is all me. The choir sings with approval... all this time I was running away from the truth. I am what sickens people, that is why they sicken me... the world has become my mirror and the only thing it is reflecting is myself. I can't go on living like this... as the problem and broken. This needs to stop... it has to.

What Once Was... Shall Never Be

I have decided, as a means of survival, I am going to move into the closet and live inside. I will route some power into it and place my computer near the entrance to watch for people trying to defile my temple. In the corner, I will place the few possessions that remain, my music, guitar, video games and books, and stack them into a platform on which I can safely sleep. That way no one can sneak in and steal from me any longer... when I am awake I will be guarding them and when I am asleep I will be laying on them. This is the only rational decision I can think of because everything I own is being stolen from under my nose. Anything that is of value and capable of being stolen is taken... stop fucking stealing my shit! Maybe I should start stealing your stuff or stick my knife through your fucking throat! There is nothing inside of you, you fucking clone, I would be doing the world a favor. Just leave me alone!

Teardrops And Saliva

My hands are wet with fear and my stomach is rotten with despair... the saliva in my mouth is thick as if I had just dropped some acid. I was I had that false security now... I am weighed and weightless at the same time... a heavy heart and nothing to keep me rational tied to the ground. I have already taken my medicine twice... the magical soldiers I was promised could help relieve my weary mind. Nothing. It's the same as it would be if I had eaten shit... which I have done on many occasions. I turn inside for comfort and I am greeted with disdain and mockery. I go the the corner to shake it out and I am disturbed by the people walking within these walls. I curl up with my cat and he offers nothing but a paw and a sigh. I look to the window... I want to jump. I go into the kitchen to grab a knife and cut myself free... free from all of it and all of them, everything. I see the amber bottle of medicine and I begin to weep... take more, take often, take more, more. All I can do is wait... when my body crashes, the mind will soon follow. I cry and gasp for the air that never comes... all I can say is simply, why?

The Reflection You Fear

We rise, some in the morning and others in mid-day, each with our mirrors to look upon. For one, they look boldly ready to face another day... proud of where they have been. For another, with a sigh they begin to apply their mask and shield... the perfect plastic face to guide them through another concrete day. Then there is me... it has been years since I could stomach my reflection in the mirror. I have weathered too many storms and countless victims... as my innocence was stolen, I have become a thief to reclaim what was once mine, robbing others. Circles, the perfect and most balanced shape... deep within built of spirals, spinning and turning destined to repeat itself once more. It never stops... perfection. Dizzy and sickened, I wonder how much longer I can withstand this memory and shell. Asking myself why I held on this long... how I long to be taken away. I have tried to wear this mask in attempts to learn the wonders I have missed... the face below rots, the mask can not remain in place. It was a fool hearted plan for I see beyond the mask... I see you and everyone else. Years ago, when I claimed my victims and reveled in the thought of them being with me forever... never would I be alone. If only, I had truly understood what that meant...

My Childhood Companion

When I was a child, one Christmas, I received a puppet from my parents. He had a velvety nose, long shiny brown ears and dark black eyes... he was a precious puppy and soon to become my best friend and nightmare. I named him Browser. No, there is nothing special about the name, just birthed from an excited child's imagination. Browser and I went everywhere together and had several wonderful adventures... life couldn't get any more perfect. Soon, Browser learned to talk and was given a personality by my mother. He was quite the trouble maker and a tad bit rebellious. My mother would talk through him for what seemed like hours... he made us all laugh, for awhile. Soon, my mother began to talk through him more and more and often said how much he loved his Grams... that was the name she had given herself. Over time, my precious friend and companion no longer wanted to spend any time with me... he wanted to spend his time with Grams reading the Bible and praying. I was often times condemned by Browser and labeled a sinner for not praying enough and that my life was to be spent burning in the pits of Hell, if I didn't mend my ways. It wasn't much longer till even more hateful words would spew from Browser's mouth and within a short amount of time it had become a daily ritual. "I hate you Daddy! Your breath stinks! You're Ugly! You're Fat! You're Stupid! You're Worthless! I'm going to slit your throat when you sleep tonight!". For several years this abuse continued, every day, several times a day. I began to hate back. It was hard enough to listen to these words coming from my once best friends mouth... I remember laughing along with them, because it was safer than crying. I wanted to return the pain unto those that had hurt me, so I began kidnapping Browser from my mother's room and hurting him. I would place him in the sink and drown him with water and then place him into the freezer. My mother would become frantic looking for him and then screaming sharply as she found him frozen. Her eyes would begin to tear up and she would scream like an injured animal. I would watch and smile... enjoying the comfort that came from her heart wrenching cries. Sometimes, I would just run into her room and grab him and swing his face violently against the counter tops... his once velvety nose shattering upon impact and flying through the air like ashes from a crematorium. Her reaction was always the same and I always found so much pleasure in tormenting her and listening to those screams, "Stop! Please, I am begging you! Please!". Even to this day, when I hear someone scream on television or a movie... my eyes glaze over and a crooked smile forms upon my face. I laugh to myself and out loud... comforted by the pain, fear and terror. Browser now lives with me and for the most part is silent. However once and awhile I pick him up and dust him off and offer him a hug and some love. He stares back at me and opens his mouth... "I hate you Daddy!". I smile at him and say, "I know Browser, I do too... I do too.".

The Beautiful People

How much different would life be, if I was beautiful / handsome? It seems to be the moving force behind someone noticing your existence. People flock around beautiful people... like lemmings marching to their fate or a wolf to an injured prey. It doesn't matter if you're disgusting on the inside, it doesn't matter if you have zero talent... mindlessly they gather bringing trinkets of praise or manipulation. A good example would be a photography community known as "Flickr"... search for awhile and you will see with your own eyes. I was looking around there today and stumbled upon a young lady's page... perhaps in the range of 14-16 years old. She had posted on her main page her visit count and literally within weeks had over 9,000 different people come admire her "photographs". It wasn't her talent all of those people came to see, because there was none... just fluff, photoshop editing and flesh. The are some that post on Flickr that would be considered "less desirable" physically, but their photographs are beyond stunning... do they receive even a fraction of the praise, attention and comments- No. For someone like myself, this can be extremely hurtful. I am in no way handsome or desirable, whether it be inside or out... nor do I possess any form of talent. Does this make me of less importance in the world... does it mean I can't succeed with in my pursuits or dreams? It feels that way. However, this could just be another mass delusion and conspiracy I have imagined. I guess the real question would be... Does the world reject me because all they can see is my own self hatred?