One On One

It's kind of funny... now that I realize the Truth of the situation. I used to believe that a Broken heart was this murderous event of pain, torture, and torment. For example, like losing your first Girlfriend or perhaps your first marriage. Maybe a broken Heart was closer to listening to your wife being gang-banged for hours on end over a cellphone covered in Tears... or that time you murdered your best friend in hopes of being Moses on the mountain Top. Nope, all of those events, however so painful, do not illustrate a broken heart. The moment that your heart breaks, splintered into thousands of unrecognizable Pieces, there are no tears, no sighs, no Pain. The room doesn't turn black and nausea doesn't occupy all of your senses. NO. In that moment... there is nothing. Nothing at all. The air stands still and stale and you become Numb... completely numb. Nothing matters anymore. Whatever it was that pained you, tortured you before, has become pointless, moot. All fear is gone, every tear has gone dry, every emotion and sensation has been silenced. It's not the Beginning, it's not the End... it's nothing. Absolutely nothing at All. Now you know... now I know. One less thing to worry about...

A World Within The Tree

The world, my world, has shifted... with the ground uneven and trembling, I find myself knelt before our tree. This tree, all it represents, the future and promise of tomorrow, has been my refuge and anchor in this world... a daily reminder of what flowed within, the blood, the breath, the light, all stemming from one source. Now it is but a shadow of what was, the tongue that tore it apart and unearthed it's roots from my heart... the salt from my eyes has poisoned the ground, and all that was is no more. Perhaps it is my limited understanding of what happened, the events that unfolded so quickly and the overly polite exits that followed. The reminder of what would always be, rather than what is... a clear precursor to the change that would immediately alter the relationship.Redefinition. Loss. Each word was in vain, every action was without hope... all I could do was watch as the door closed, as the tree became unearthed, choking on the tears that relentlessly fell upon the burnt ground. It was then, that this time I knew for certain that things were different... despite the promises and assurances, I knew those words were only spoken in kindness, not truth. The truth was something quite different, it was the dark I had feared coming... and how dark it was. For hours I wept uncontrollably, pleading with myself that the end had not yet settled in... that there could be a tomorrow, a purpose, some hope. But these things will never come, for they died at  the foot of tree... the one that sheltered us, listened quietly to our conversations, and wore our initials on her chest. When Tuesday met Friday, and how quickly he knew that he loved her... the kind of love that is only written about, and so rarely seen or felt. All this loss and sorrow, not even a day after I discovered our tree was a girl... just like the chair. Do you remember? How quickly we forget always...

The Powder Room

A perverse amount of time has passed since I have been able to come here and document the pathetic nature of my life... or what passes for the excuse of living life. I am indeed not living, rather I am nothing more than a slave to addiction, torment and debauchery. Within these walls of script, that have outlined the nature of my various failures, crimes and transgressions, you've become familiar with the monster that wears the face of humanity and mingles among the living. Most of the events written within, require some deduction and thought to fully appreciate their significance and meaning. This will not be the case today. For the message I have to share today, needs not the lattice and veiled approach... the dirt upon my face and the spittle foaming in the corners of my lips speak for itself.

About three months ago, I returned to the rabbit hole and the denizens within... once again engaging in the dance of substance abuse. They welcomed me passionately, as I returned to the embrace of lost lovers... the orgasm of flesh and mind, as the drugs consumed any remaining remnants of pride and self-worth. The affair did not end there, for it has become a daily exercise of humiliation and debasement. The seductress of choice this time around is opiates... more specifically, Dilaudid. Once I awake for the day, within moments I've ingested enough to send my body into a nodding delirium. The ecstasy washes over me and the foot race ensues... running frantically from the stress of the day and the demons that devour my remaining sanity. Once the slightest sign of sobriety approaches, I return desperately to the bedroom floor of my mistress and expose my milky flesh in exchange for another dose of orgasmic bliss. The dance continues all day long, day after day, without rest and an endless amount of remorse. I've become a whore to my drug and myself... a junkie and an established author of failure.


Of course, all of this is a descriptive way of informing you that I have once again starting abusing drugs. NO, I am not whoring myself out for drugs and there is, in fact, no mistress or drug dealing rabbits. As you already know, I suffer from chronic pain due to some injuries to my back, neck and leg from long ago. It is also well known that even though I was sober for over ten years, I still displayed behavior of a drug addict by hoarding my pain medications. So you see, there is no need to sell my body for drugs or even associate with a drug dealer, because I have a near endless supply of opiates at my disposal. I suppose that's why I chose to abuse that particular drug... availability. As for what lead me down this path, that's a different story entirely. Yes, there were circumstances, but the biggest factor would be weakness. Yes, things were said and certain event transpired, but the decision was ultimately mine and mine alone. No one forced me to start using again... I took that leap all by myself.

When I stopped using drugs before, it became a common occurrence to have people tell me things like, "It won't last" and "Once a junkie, always a junkie". I suppose part of me became accustomed to this attitude from others and their cruelty and ignorance. At the same time, I suppose part of me always remained very sensitive and hurt my these thoughts. Perhaps that's why what followed had such a profound impact on my decision to start using drugs again. For a little over a year now, I've had a very strong desire to have a child of my own.... to raise a family that I had a role in creating. This idea, this thought, has become something that I yearn for greatly. Not too long along, someone very close to me, at the time, told me something very callous and cruel. They said they would never even consider having a child with someone like me, a former drug addict, because they would only return to that lifestyle and ruin the life and childhood of their child. Hearing this, broke my heart and shattered my dreams and desires... as if my face were brutally thrust into a mirror and I was force fed the shards of broken glass. This person supposedly cared for me and called themselves my friend... to hear something so hurtful really had a profound impact on my fragile and limited self-esteem. I was fueled with anger and rage... all of the voices came running back to the front line. "Once a junkie, always a junkie!". I thought to myself, "Why not? Fuck it! Let them be right... I don't give a fuck anymore!". The stress in my life had become unbearable and my hopes of leaving this apartment and living on my own had only become more and more complicated and delayed. So I needed an escape. I needed a way to leave all of this bullshit behind me. So I did. I closed my eyes and said "Goodbye" to my ten years of sobriety and returned to the place I once swore I'd never see again.

So here I sit... three months into this addiction that has a firm grasp on my soul and testicles. I have no one to blame but myself, and truthfully, I don't. I did in the beginning perhaps. But now, it is very clear to me that this was a decision of my own making and design. I'm not comfortable with it, by any means. In fact, I fucking hate it. At first, I was hoping it would just kill me... then I could finally say goodbye to this pathetic excuse of an existence. However, as I've stated countless times before... nothing is ever as simple as we'd like it to be. For now, let's just say I'm no longer satisfied with the idea of dieing from this addiction... it's something I wish to remove from my life, so that I can begin a new chapter. A chapter worth living. But that's a story for another time.

For now, this is all I have to share on the subject. For those of you that consider yourselves my friends... I am truly sorry that I've let you down and become something less than human. For those of you that desire to judge me on my short comings and "knew this day was coming"...  go fuck yourselves, you self-righteous, mother fucking leeches.

Bury One, To Birth The Other

Once again, time has been altered... this time due to a fault of my own. The Devil's pills and festered wills... that quelled the din within. There is little doubt that my appearances have once again become scattered and my style somewhat altered... the stage was cleared and I was left alone to swim through the emotions and vibrations of day to day living. Writing had become difficult... almost torturous. I would have to actually sit down and calm myself and focus before I could write even the simplest form of expression. Never before had this been a problem... the blood was backing up in my throat, and the children began to drown. After much thought and several breakdowns, I stopped swallowing the poisonous pill. It has only been but a few days, but already I feel The Choir gaining strength and Richard his resolve. The breakdowns were triggered but all of this overwhelming emotion... new and old ones alike, I'm just not equipped to interpret all of these incoming transmissions. One Station with a magnitude of operators... that's how things have always been. And so they shall be once more. I was terribly lonesome and afraid... with no one left to council or console me in my time of need. When the waters became too high there was no one left to steer the ship. I could never leave center stage and escape into the quiet... the bitter, sweet torments of the quiet. Stillness was removed. Richard had all but grown quiet, but never fully gone... he demonstrated his true will and strength the day of my last breakdown. Filled with rage, he made me realize that you cannot run from who you are... it's always there, waiting. Enter the breakthrough... it's time for a new game. It was then that I realized, truly and fully, the real problem... it's not Richard or The Choir, the problem is me. All of this time I've been focusing my thoughts and energy on the past and how terrible of a man and human being I truly was... was, being the operative word. Sure, I have a past... several in fact. I've done unspeakable things and committed heinous acts against God, Nature, and Humanity... these things can never be changed. No matter how much blood and sweat I spill, there is erasing the past... it is written and it is done. What I didn't understand was that I am not subject to live in the past... I must live for today. The man that lived for the flesh is gone... his deeds may remain, his guilt, his shame. But that man was buried long ago... it is time I let him rest and forget. Instead there is myself, taking his place and moving on in this world, in life. Despite the past, I realized that I am a good man... the man that is here now. An honorable, giving, thoughtful and respectful man. I may not be perfect, but what I am... ain't all that fucking bad.

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.

Empty Tears

At times, I use the words that imply that I'm crying actual tears over something... this is very misleading and I apologize for that. Yes, I have cried my heart out before and shed so many tears I thought my body would wither away... but I haven't shed one single tear in quite some time. It's gotten to the point where I am desperate to cry... to feel that release as the tears roll down my cheeks and how my lungs would quiver in between breathes. They just won't come... no matter how hard I've tried. Over the past few months, I've taken drastic steps to make this happen... and the end result is always the same, nothing. I've watched all of my favorite tear-jerk-er movies, given into the voices and agreed how pathetic I truly am, inflicted physical pain such as burning or cutting, listening to sappy music, thinking and talking about the things that always make me weep like an infant... they just won't come, no matter how hard I try. Last night I even dusted off my guitar and played for the first time in several years and still nothing... which is odd considering I stopped playing because the emotions were too powerful and confusing and I would weep endlessly. I lay in bed every night, begging for God to kill me and take me away from here... feeling so sorry for myself that the tears should flow easily, but they won't. My therapist believes this is because I have disassociated myself too much... driven into a severe state of isolation as a means of self-preservation. Simply put, I'm to withdrawn to cry... too depressed, too separated from reality. I still feel other emotions and vibrations at times, brief moments of excitement, lust, shame, guilt, remorse, etc... so this makes it even more confusing for me. I really wish it would happen... I feel like I need it more than words can possibly describe. Like part of me is missing, a huge gaping hole in the chest that could only be filled with the tears of sorrow bursting from my soul. It may sound stupid and make me appear even more pathetic than usual, if that's even possible... but I wish I could cry. More than anything... the feeling of release and closure. That distinctive piece of humanity.

Beauty And The Beast

I've spent a lot of time lately thinking about my lover and the affair we shared so intensely and deeply, all those years ago... rejected for years, she has sat in a dusty corner. Untouched and untamed. I miss the way my fingertips danced along her neck and how my thumb pressed firmly against her spine... my other hand slapping gently against her delicate curves in rhythm as our souls spiraled into endless ecstasy. The way she sang and echoed sweet sounds in the rooms... as my fingertips tickled and tugged her heart strings. Feelings I've never felt since, nor do I dare I shall ever feel again... even in my limited understanding of emotions and vibrations, I knew this must be love. The days of love now gone, and the sorrow that I felt as I locked her out off my life... living life through distant memories.We'd make love for hours on end, until we body shook in weariness and utter fatigue... never once did she shudder away, but stayed faithfully in the moment. Those precious moments ended as I clutched my chest and ripped my heart out... the intensity had grown too strong and I couldn't bear the emotions stirring inside. I needed to hide and run away from the only love I've ever known... now aging in my room, filled with regret I weep. My lost love, my inability to continue those timeless moments... stripped away by the very hand that i trusted most. They say it was for the best, that all things happen for a reason... we grow and strengthen over time. I snarl at those words of fools... knowing love once and to never know it again is a hell endless in torment. Even though time is cruel and we can never go back and undo those moments we regret... time has a funny way of turning itself around and changing hearts. I saw her today and without word I approached her and took her gently into my arms and warming embrace. I needed to cry and release these unknown and complicated emotions... I laid my head softly against her cool, tender, body and shivered in fear. All those things I wanted to feel again were now foreign and distanced... we couldn't go back, but we could remember. On looking eyes wouldn't see the sorrow and regret, nor the love we once shared... it would look commonplace to those separate from this experience. She is without name, and without face... just pressed wood and hand framed body. To others just an old, worn guitar... but to me, the love of my life. Those passionate webbings once spun, now only exist in memory and time... never to felt again.

Beneath The Floorboards

It is the same. As it was, so has it been... each morning a reminder and disappointment, laced with disgust and rage that I'm still alive. When my eyes become as heavy, as the burdens upon my shoulders, I curl into a ball and pray for death... every night, over and over, begging that it will be my last. The release never comes. The long awaited peace and serenity of death, dangle before me as the carrot before the mule... our strongest desire and blood quenching plea. Release me, God... take me from here. Our eyes swell with anticipation and a thirst for tears to be shed... but they never come, they cried themselves dry long ago. I feel the sorrow, the desperation, drowning in an endless sea of anguish... how they torment and mock every gasping breath. Gagging on the liquid memories of remorse and self-loathing... turning, as the worms in the earth, rotting in my belly moment after moment. The cowardice cripples any urges or compulsion to slit my throat with the pieces of this broken mirror... their only purpose is to instill more fear and misery. The sins of yesterday ache for the bloody release of ripping flesh... to be cut out over and over again, for the root is too far within. It never ends... the struggle, the loss, the lack, the feast. The growth has become stagnant and river of dharma is unsatiated... the purpose is without clarity and the ash has become too thick. Among the myriad of tasteless emotions and the relentless ire, I wrestle with the loss of death... the final rap on death's door should have echoed so many years ago. Instead, I am here... robbed of my destiny and an end to this madness. Forced to live a meaningless existence filled with burnt photographs and scar tissue... those faces screaming in torment no longer comfort me. Razor edged faces, digging deeper each morning... and hers cuts slower and longer than his. What used to burn our hands with desire and spewed with little encouragement has now become the thorn in paw... in a mind that is diseased with mornings and mirrors.

What Left But Never Went Away

It has begun, the cycle has started and the worms rear their heads in anticipation... what we were is past and that which comes next is now. The snake sloughs it's skin... the rodents prepare the nest. The hole goes down, down, down... did you leave the trail of biscuits?

Dear 2003,

It was me... all this time. When we met in confidence to uncover the secret betrayal with ritual and magic... the cards told the truth, it was my split tongue that altered it's voice. It had become an obsession, the chase and the collections... a ravage hunt of lust and delicate fibers. I placed your hairs in plastic tubes... locked away where the blood should be. One for the head and one for the waist...  harvested from the nesting place of my mouth and face. The cotton formed fields of pleasure and a bed for me to rape... over and over as I inhaled your essence and feasted on your honey and milk. It became a religion... a way of salvation and dedication. The cost was flesh... skin for skin. With so many in my grasps, an army of a hundred or more... I named and treasured them all. Never to be soiled or altered... they nestled closely to sleep, wrapped tightly in sheets of plastic, as the drawer was replaced with cardboard. You tried to end the madness, but I thwarted your every plan... I rescued them from your floorboards and constrictive bindings. They needed air... and for awhile, I felt as if they needed me as much as I needed them. But you see, it wasn't just the family I raised from nothing into a vast fortune... it was you, it was always about you. Every time another came home and added to the colored field of cotton, through their labors and offerings... I was one step closer to you. Another piece had come home and you were that much closer to my bed... the hunger burned deeply and the thirst could not be satiated. I am sorry to have waited so long for the truth to be told... I was sworn to silence and paid for my vows with blood. But it was you, all this time... it was always about you.

The Sensual Eel

There was a message waiting for me, void of content and listless... the words took shape and floated aimlessly towards the mustached women of tomorrow. Curiously, I planted and snipped the garden, long been since tended... awaiting the return of voices once meant for myself. Time and time again, what was is lost to be found by another... wicker basket picnics and strawberry viscera. My time here, although limited, is slowly crawling back to speed... separated from days and divided by nights, my thoughts have weakened and the lustered will has ebbed. Previous events have caused a shift in my medications... the popular thought of quelling the voices has only agitated my depression. The new thought is to treat the depression alone and allow the choir to regroup and harp mindlessly in unison... we'll tremble and gape at the drooling maw in awe. My hopes are to return to the "functional" level once teetered upon before this string of events crippled us... ten years living dead, betrayal, loss, and flea infestation. At least the fleas are gone and my companion and adviser is once again content... the lashings have been few, but he remains the guardian and I am subject to his bidding. Today is a new day of shedding... a day to wash away the collected ash and debris. I shall select my finest dress and lace it tight, as the preening and dancing enthrall the echo-less mind... with my braided beard and curls of yesteryear, the veins are ripped forth and I scamper with intent and delight. When the pieces are reassembled and routine restored, we'll still have the memories and the need of redemption... those lipstick stained teeth marks have tattooed themselves deeper than my fleshy cheek and neck. The sweat is still blinding and the humor in screaming misery still warms my chest... the price however, even though the sensations are delighted, is too much to grieve. It's not without thought... pleasure from the pain and suffering of others. The sadist in me, is the very same sadist in you... feeding each other, one jagged fingernail at a time.

Not The Only One

The day was like any other day... the sun rose and set as scheduled, but the lives entwined were forever changed. In the park sat a young girl, alone on a bruised, wooden bench... the tender age of seventeen, weeping in silence. A man wandered by and noticed her obvious distress... twice her age and understanding. He sat down beside her, offering comfort and compassion... with pure heart and mind he tried to ease her pain and suffering. Shocked that he had even noticed her, she looked into his eyes and saw his intentions were true... the familiar eyes of lust were absent from this man. She opened herself unto him, bearing her soul and her sorrow. He asked her why she cried so silently, yet with such inner fire... the sounds ripping from within her chest could deafen the ears of millions. She told him, with head lowered down, that she was a sinner... she had been tainted by her mother's boyfriend. For many nights, since she was the age of eight years old, he would come into her room and objectify her and subject her to his carnal delights... she was powerless to stop him as he grunted away her innocence with sweaty teeth. She couldn't bear the thought of going home, wondering if tonight was the night he would creep through her doorway. See began weeping so heavily, that she had lost her breath and could no longer speak. As she cried there, holding her legs into her chest, she felt a tear drop splash against her sunken head... it was from the man, his heart now breaking. She looked up at him in confusion, wondering if her story had moved this stranger into tears. She reached over and touched his arm and quietly spoke to him... the words, "I am sorry", echoed from her mouth. The man turned his eyes toward hers and replied, "It is not you, but I, that should speak such words.". She blinked, for she had never seen this man before... why would he hold any sorrow for her? He lowered his head and told her something very similar... another tale of the same design, many years ago in time. He told her that he used to have a step-daughter, whom he loved very much. So much in fact, that those feelings became tainted and muddled. One night, as he lay there holding her in his arms, he took advantage of her and fondled her body in a manner not fitting for a father and daughter. He took it further and within a matter of days he had spent three nights laying with her in her bed... the sweat, blood and tears clinging to the knotted sheets. The young girl was shocked by this confession, but more so by his reaction. The man had crumbled to the earth as he finished his story, with tears choking in his throat he cried out, "God, I am so sorry... please forgive me.". In between his gasps, he said those nights had haunted him for the past ten years... revisiting him daily and each time his heart shattered with the memory. He had tried to silence the terror by taking his own life... a scar traced his forearm, from his wrist to his elbow. He wanted to forget, he wanted to be forgiven... he wanted to deserve redemption. The young girl took his arm into her hands and raised it to her lips... kissing his scar lightly. He looked up at her, through his heavy tears, with confusion. She looked into his eyes smiling lightly and simply said... "I'm not the only one?".

The We, Not Meant For Me

By some chance, a miracle really, we were to dine together... my family and yours, an arrangement of courting. It was unexpected and welcomed with great anticipation. I sat on the couch, fondling your younger sister, as I awaited your arrival. Driven by those from within, they wanted other graces than what my heart and mind desired. Starting slowly with her toes... waiting for further advancements and stolen innocence. Soon you graced the doorway, with your elegance and beauty... the beasts within were silenced, as I took center stage. There you stood, dressed formally in a knee lengthened skirt, blouse, pantyhose and sensible shoes... lighting the room with a smile of acceptance. I returned the gesture for but only a moment... quickly noticing my soiled jeans, hole infested tee-shirt, bare feet and knotted, unkempt hair clawing at my waist. Your parents had accompanied you in this affair... equally fashionable, although disapproving. You had brought with you, two elaborate desserts... one was a cake with flowing, warm, chocolate fudge rising from the center, dancing it's way to the edges of the tray. I had no parents to call my own, only this dysfunctional gathering of a friend, a neighbor and a deviant uncle. Quickly, my neighbor scoffed at the deliciously moist cake... it was served in a fashion that was unfitting and improper. She proceeded to claw out the center of the cake with her soiled hands, smashing it vehemently... making it more suiting. After this display of primal behavior, I noticed the meal we had prepared for such an important occasion... a poor man's soup, of boiled meat and onions. A pair of rusty scissors had been stabbed through a pornographic magazine, securing it tightly to the cracked, wooden table before you had arrived... I desperately pawed at it, trying to remove it's offensive glare. Ribbons of flesh danced through the air... breasts and pubic hair falling like crematorium ashes. I gathered the bits and pieces, looking for a place to hide them... my only choice was the desk of a child. Once filled only with crayons, glue and coloring books... now it too, was robbed of it's purity. I fled in terror, removing myself to the restroom with sorrow and embarrassment as my only companions. Secured by no extra walls or door... it was a stained toilet at he end of the hallway, with a clear view of the street and falling leaves. It was being shared by an old man and a young child, as they wrote their names in the murky water... trading pencils as they wrote with laughter. I looked out the window, to see you walking away... with head down and your smile fading. You had been replaced in appearance, by the young girl from high school... whom sang the aria of Ariel the mermaid with absolute perfection, so many years before. Your hair, face and gestures no longer were your own... but it was you. Inside, the radiance declared it so. I would try again, to better all of the short comings... anything to get you to return to me just once more. I slide on my finest nylons and party dress... matching the myriads of colors of my full length beard. I grabbed my insulated barn coat and ran into the streets to find you... wrenching at the knots in my hair in hopes it would fall as pressed satin, as yours had always done before. You were nowhere to be seen. A woman, with jet black hair, in a white summer jumper stood instead with eyes of disgrace and judgment. Uncertain of her glances, I shoved my hair down into my dress and frantically tucked it into my nylons. I wept and I was once again all alone. I awoke in in my bed, sweating through my shorts and shirt... the sheets wrinkled and damp with fear and heartache. It was but a dream... but more so, a dream never to be within my grasp.

Choir Of Furies

The melody of terror vibrates inside... screaming reminders, like broken fingernails clawing at the rough pavement. Every act brings it's own verse, the judgment and redemption are unending... there is no atonement or salvation pending. This round bellied beast has become the feast, on which the diners never cease... no peace, no release. Confessions are moot... in this godless court, I stand accused and accountable. Still, the desire remains to voice every incident. To some how release my own guilt at the very least... raised corpses, daughters and neighbors waiting for reprisal. The words are like sand in my throat... choking me as I gasp for the air to cough them out once and for all. The more I struggle, the more I am suffocated... like warm, stale breath whispered over and over in the victim's ear. I can still taste the sweat from my brow, smell the hair and fluids that were spilled upon the cold concrete and see the trembling bedsheets. Each moment sparked with a smile... lights dim as reason and remorse left my side. I just didn't want to be left all alone... I couldn't stand being alone any longer. The closet is crowded now... all of us together, forever.

Closure

No matter how painful or tear lined it may be... I need this chapter of my life to be closed. Whether your words are spun by a forked tongue or there is a final stab wrenching in my stomach... I need to know why. Stripped away from me, like a trophy, was my innocence... my fragile, virgin state of mind. Leaving me without a towel to wipe my tears or to plug the hole you ripped in my chest. You abandoned me on that silver street, never to return and witness the ruins left by your hand. Even though you left without any remorse or indecision, returning to what once was adequate... I needed more. I needed the explanation. I needed the goodbyes. I needed the insincere apologies. I needed the closure. For these things, no matter how mending, I mustn't wait. Those words will never come and I must repair the pieces alone. Breath by breath and day by day, I send your name unto the void... to learn to trust again. As I remove your words, which dangled my heart... I'll learn to live once more.

Tears Of Red

If my tears could have a color, they would be red. My heart has never ached like this before... all that was within it has leaked out. There is nothing left to piece it together... no ribbon promises, laced words or paper embraces. What I have become and my place in this world are mocking reminders of what I wanted to be... for you and me. This reflection won't fade in time, for it serves as a memory... a warning to the future and a reminder of what to seek. There is nothing left to be mended or dreamt... no towel to wipe down the imperfections. Loss is nothing new nor is the feeling of despair... but what I have been left to feel is beyond my previous knowledge. I cry rivers of red today... and the stain is all that remains.

So Much, Yet So Little

I try to open my mouth and nothing comes out... would it matter? My tongue has brought nothing but further confusion, sorrow and remorse... remorse for the things said and those never uttered. Perhaps I have said more than I intended... more than I realized or hoped. As I write, my words become tainted and my heart uneasy... the right words won't come and the ones that find their place are often troublesome. I fear they do nothing but further the distance between what once was and what now has become. I'm cold and without solace... I am alone here, watching you slip further and further away.

35th

Today is my brother's birthday... I haven't spoken with him in 8 years now and counting. When we were younger, we were the typical brothers... playing with each other all day and occasionally he would tease, isolate and torture me like older siblings do. I guess things went south around the time I started to become ill, around 15-16. We used to wrestle, like "the pros" from the days gone by. He would put me in the "Boston crab", "figure four", "the sleeper" and "scorpion death lock" and I would always use the same old submission tactic of the "scissor hold". One evening, as we wrestled, I began to "slip away" from reality and became extremely violent. We were raised in a VERY religious household... more of those nightmares another time... and when I became violent with him, he became extremely scared and started crying. He crawled away from me quoting scriptures, like we were drilled to do, and told me "I rebuke you, Satan, in the name of Jesus Christ!". I guess that was the trigger of my first of many psychotic breaks... I smiled at him and quoted a scripture back at him from Acts 19:15, "And the evil spirit answered and said, 'Jesus I know, and Paul I know; but who are you?' ". I remember crashing myself upon him and beginning to beat him to a pulp... the rest, I have no idea. I wasn't there. Needless to say, out relationship began to change... we no longer spent time together and grew apart. He continued to distance himself from the rest of the family, especially my Dad. Years later while at college, he had developed such a disdain for my Dad, that he had his name legally changed. He came to visit his friends back home once, during my hardcore drug abuse days, he came over to my house said hello and said we should visit later after I was done tripping. He never came back and I haven't seen him since. Eight years ago when I moved north, I had taken his car stereo and offered to buy it from him so I wrote him a letter and set up an arrangement. His reply was short and to the point... business as usual. After the deal was done, I guess so was our relationship. I miss those simple days of playing in the woods and playing Cowboys and Indians with my brother... I miss the laughter. I know he will never read this... more than likely no one will. But either way, I love you T.J. . Happy Birthday, Big Brother.