Wordjunk

There can’t be glue 

between the flier

and the wall

it sticks with an adhesive

all it’s own.

Read between the lines

see the words that have enraptured you

so

it’s like technicolor snow

doesn’t make sense

but you’ll watch it

anyways

I always knew you would

be the one to turn this

sentence around

talk your way out 

of our final freedom.

This pen fits just like a glove

around your hand

a little tight

okay

We’ll start again

some other day.

Write this down so you

will never forget

the promises you make

the terror is inside you

but your love is much stronger

than all these cobwebs

holding up your corpse.

Wordjunk 

falls back in the bin

again

and again

crimple crumple

rumple dump

Just another

writers slump

Keep telling yourself

this is what you want

Keep on going

no matter what. 

Hold it together

and fuck this up. 

Life in the Hour Glass


The patient feed off of the salt of anticipation

Listening and waiting

For a phrase

To let them in.

Sometimes I still walk

These flats

Licking at the earth

Head down

Beneath this glaring sun

Mouth dry,

Brow wet.

The path we travel

Is fools-gold,

The burden we carry

Is a mighty load.

Serving forever in this kingdom of sand

Our castles crumble

With the dissolution of the land.

We patient subjects

Ambling through lifetimes of regret

Keep listening, waiting

But our paths are constantly beset.

Love does not exist

Here in the desert

Hate breeds in the dunes

Settling with the dust

And in calloused hands,

Or in red, tearful eyes.


When will we tire of waiting?
When will the lion be slain
And peace reign?

Until then we keep drifting

Searching for

Our lost lamb

Shepherds of time

We stay our hands… 

Traveler

One million shards of glass lodged in time,

I can feel the diamonds embedded in my mind.

Take me higher,

higher still,

past the heavens, past the stars.

Lay me down on the moon,

let her craters cradle me.

I am a traveler

Crossing over distant lands.

I’ve been grounded there too long,

Singin’ those old songs.

I want to write you a letter, but my well has run dry.

Take the blood from my veins just to fill my quill.

I’m an astronaut now, I’m a hero now.

I’m a vagabond now, I’m someone’s villain now.

Tell me you’re alright. Just blink your light

from the ground. I’ll spot you from above,

let your beam reflect off my eye,

glassy,

and blue yonder.

I’ll know you’re still there.

Doesn’t seem there’s an end to this road,

but it’s taking me somewhere,

maybe far away from you.

I want to write you a letter, but these veins have run dry.

Take the darkness from space just to fill my quill. 

One hundred million shards of me lodged in you,

can you see my diamonds in your eyes?

I can see yours in mine. 

Future goals.

1. Graduate College with a major in Lit or writing or something (I don’t care).

2. Find a job to pay for voice-acting and improv classes.

3. Break into voice acting.

4. Make it into doing voices for Anime and cartoons.

5. Make connections.

6. Write this damn idea for an Anime I have.

7. Send it to people, have Japan animate it.

8. ???

9. GET DAT MONEY!!!

…Well…that’s one possibility.

OH right, I have a Tumblr

As if anyone ever really read this thing.  What do I possibly have to say? It seems like I’m always coming up with something witty and/or embarrassing on my facebook status’ - yet like Facebook status’ my thoughts usually fill about two to three sentences at most and then after that I go back to being braindead in front of my computer until I come back into consciousness long enough to form another coherent thought.


So that would explain my lack of posting on here for some time.  It is also why I am completely inept at getting any other writing done whatsoever.

I’ll be like: “Hey! I’m going to write a book!” which is followed by 10 minutes staring at a blank word document going: “What the fuck am I doing? Every thought I come up with is retarded.” And repeat this ad nauseum.

I don’t doubt the power of good writing to inspire people into creating great or even mildly decent works - but I feel reading extremely poor writing is even more inspiring, because anybody can read something that’s complete shit and go “Sweet Jesus even I could do better than that!”  The problem lies in recognizing when a work is indeed poorly written. For instance: Sarah Palin, Stephanie Meyer, etc… Sometimes a work is so misguided and devoid of any creativity you cannot help but become depressed and you become uninspired and cry yourself to sleep because you feel like you were just sexually assaulted by a piece of shit—I mean writing.


My apologies to women writers - it just so happens that Palin and Meyers both have vagina’s. Technically Palin isn’t an author too so…there’s that.



An Open Letter to the WORLD

Sweet earth we live on.  You are humble and kind but you are quite ambivalent and cruel as well.  You’re full of emotion and of knowledge and your use of it is sometimes for better and others for worse. 

Your children need you, but you’re tired and weary.  They are confused and they know not what they do nor who to be at all times.  If I could impart my years of wisdom and experience whilst travailing through the public school system I would.  I would lend my spirit to anyone who was tormented for being different or for those searching for an identity.  I would give them my fury and my strength so that they may conquer the pettiness and intolerance.  Yes World, some of your sons and daughters are stubborn and remain belligerent - yet there is hope.  For every confused child there are at least countless others being born who undoubtedly grow up and become otherwise reasonable and understanding human beings. You never promised we’d be perfect but for that I don’t begrudge you. It is a double-edged sword bestowing us with both massive diversity and also debilitating cruelty and baseness. 

So World you are not so different in your vast seas and dark forests.  You have knocked your wee chicks from the nest and as much as it may pain you to see us struggle to sustain ourselves in our high perches and complexity, you remain impartial and give and take from us in the wisdom only you understand.  The wisdom of chaos.  That is why we cling to our order, and the sanity we have established, it is all that we know.

But each day another person cracks because they can’t take sanity. Each day another person discovers a little something more of what they’re made of.  And each day a new person will embrace the chaos you have inscribed deep within them.  At the end of each and every day a person dances to a song only they can hear while bystanders watch indignant and afraid.  We are afraid, World.  We are frightened children clinging to each other and we do not know how to go on but we are doing what we can.  And that’s good enough

Sincerely your friend,

S.S.

P.S.

May the lost become found, as may the world turn ‘round.

In Blood

This poem reflects a darker side to humanity.  As much as people like to feel as if humans are inherently good - it’s important to realize there is no such distinction in the animal kingdom.  The lion must eat, the pest must spread.  And above every animal on the food chain we sit on a throne of blood it seems.  As humans we have plenty of redeeming qualities but we have some that are less than admirable that we are less likely to admit.  It’s also interesting to note the many suicides that take place within the military - where in a recent statistic I read the total number of suicides of American soldiers in Afghanistan have exceeded the total number of deaths of American soldiers in Iraq.  You can search that fact up on your own - but it’s something interesting to consider.

Greed is Good for You

Chuck your ego

from off your high horse

cast your selfish

conceited desires

to the ground

where they may lay,

they may rot

and decay.

Do this everyday

while they may say

‘please clasp your hands to pray!’

Offering palms

firstborn babes

sacrifice spirit

effigy from clay

handover the rib

to these devils in disguise

send them a soul

on white wings

and silver platters

to the highest bidders

of hell.

Sell

us

your

Soul.

The free market shouts its earnings

from atop it’s throne of blood

skulls perched beneath obese cheeks

as gluttonous lips are licked by the tepid tongue of vanity

yet claim freedom from profanity

as it curses the mud smudged masses

down from its gold-trimmed chains

treating us as

animals in cages

and books with no pages.

Then write it!

Tell us how you love

being raped

on daytime TV

and late night infomercials

Tell me how you like

it

Now that you’re

gone.

While Listening to Sibelius.

The undying flailing of limbs that forever pervades endless hallways of darkness, the madness inherent in the mind of serial killers, in the poet, in the dictator, in the revolutionary, the artist, the sculptor.  The shady spirit that infects it’s prey with agonizing longing, and painful dismay, with brilliant inspiration and magnificent creation.  It seeps from us.  It seeps out of us.  It oozes out of our eyes, our ears, it drips viscously from our nostrils and hangs languidly from the corners of our mouths then drops out of our reach - into infinity. That madness we so shun and embrace, that insanity that lies mute at the bottom of our bellies - it eludes the casual mind.  But some…some.  Some retain it.  While others know not what to do with it - some take it by it’s bestial horns and reign over it with the tenacity of a furious demon.  A spiteful demon that wishes to inflict it’s fury out on the world - for better or for worse.  It is not good, it is not evil.  It is the transcending tendrils of human consciousness in it’s most purest form.  It is power.  The power to wield one’s madness and use it for something!  Those are the truly human, those are the minds that shift the world in directions we have never seen. Those minds are poetry, and every single one is a poem that no one can hope to understand, merely because they are not crazy enough. 

Believe It

Plenty of people

good people,

you’d call them.

Simple people.

They will hear what they’re told

is “good”

and nod their heads

bend down on cheap wood

say a few lines

then head home.

But seldom

and few

do carry through

They will hear these things

and carry on

with their angry

hateful,

petty,

wasted lives.


They will carry on

and they will not care.

Careless.

Because they believe

their ticket’s bought

and sold —

exalted

and gold.

Like Karamazov

I kindly rescind

this arbitrary

pass.

Here

take it.

take it back.

I will burn in hell

with the rest

of the world.