Posted in My Daily Adventures, My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“A night without liquor, mistakes made in poor lighting, and the numbing taste of a strangers lips would do me a world of good. If only I knew how to accept anything good..”

Coiled around every kiss is the taste of a temporary love. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but we’ve all forced ourselves to stomach worse things than this, in the name of desire. Nobody enjoys a burning esophagus, nor the rancid taste of stomach acid that accompanies every exhale. A goodnight kiss has been replaced with a shot of sour breath breaking across the face of a stranger. Going to bed alone would be the smart thing to do, so of course you drag a warm body up and under the cover of your sheets, because under those covers you can almost convince yourself that warmth is coming from a place of genuine care. But that lie falls down, down, down into the cavern that used to be your sense of empathy, and it keeps falling until the air is filled with the echo of shattered porcelain, and you begin to realize how empty you’ve become in your search for another love.

Posted in My Daily Adventures, My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“Raking away at already red wrists, as if self inflicted scars are the latest fashion trend, I’m racing towards another round of awkward conversations about an imaginary cat, a pair of clumsy feet, and a person who stopped caring a long time ago.”

Someday you’ll come to understand how I feel. You’ll wake up, and before you even get the chance to roll out of bed, an intense self-loathing will be simmering right beneath your skin. You won’t be able to make sense of it, and with every passing second the pressure of being alive will grind your ribs into chalk, leaving your heart entirely exposed. Nothing that you are experiencing will make any sort of sense. The stale apartment air will have raked away at your arms, leaving them as withered husks, floating as useless air, unable to hold on to even the lightest trace of hope. A guilt will begin to gnaw away at stomach lining, and your hands will prove even more useless as you fail to hold back the flood of doubt, fear and rage that comes roaring through those new holes in your humanity. With everything that you once called your own breaking rank in a mad dash to get out, the unavoidable emptiness of being alone will begin to sink in, and if it wasn’t for the fact that your autonomic nervous system was a thing, you would have given up swallowing air, as every mouthful is just another tablespoon of bubble gum flavored cough syrup; another poor attempt at drowning out the pain of living without love.

Posted in My Daily Adventures, My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

Rainy days are my favorite days, because in the rain I can believe in things like a clean start or second chances.

I waited for you in April, but as the rain came and went, you never revealed yourself to me.  I stayed there, and I’m still here, unable to rise up and enjoy the summer sun. And as this autumn fades into blinding snow, you are often the only thing on my mind. I’m still waiting for you, but each new breath saps all the warmth from my bones, and it’s only here, where my time is frozen, that the truth finally sinks in; I may never get to see you again…

~I wanted to see you blossom, but I never gave you the things plants need, like water or sunlight or…I never nurtured you, I just assumed nature would take care of that. Humans aren’t plants though, and we need silly things like words of encouragement and ice cream trucks and hugs that you wish would never end…because the end is a real thing, for everything, and that hurts…it hurts so damn much…~

Posted in My Daily Adventures, My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics

Years may pass, but the Sun hasn’t changed; It’s the same every May, and so is the pain.

Speak to me, on bended knee!

“O sweet dreams, my dreary queen!”

Sail away on those ships of yours

Past the end, over the floors

Of a raging Ocean, with waves as tall

As my clouds, the love that won’t fall…

~My words on paper mean nothing at all, for in a moment of rage it can all be lost, tossed and torn, gone without a moment’s notice. I would prefer to write my words in the forever sky; my moments saved in a world solely for the heavens…~

Scream at me, the words you’ll never need,

Write them in the sky, so far from your seas.

The ships that you sail lack the wings

To carry you away with all of your things.

“My clouds are mine, the heavens untouched!”

So this love is mine; a pallet waiting on your brush…

Posted in My Daily Adventures, My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

I can do my own taxes, and can legally rent a car, but today for lunch I had a handful of diner mints, and while filling out a form for a new credit card I forgot my new address. So I’m sort of grown up, but maybe not so much.

Nobody just becomes an adult because they want to. Sure, people can try to be an adult, but honestly, it’s not something you can control. One day you’re a kid, and the next day that’s all over, and you are an adult from that point forward. It’s not sad or painful, at least not all the time, but it’s not something you can just will to happen, it just does.

So trying to judge yourself on the basis of whether or not you are a real adult is sort of silly, although I’m sure everybody has felt like a “bad” adult, or that they need to “grow up”. But people don’t grow up, do they? No, people don’t grow up, they just…grow.

Posted in My Daily Adventures, My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I.

Girl Scout Cookie delivery day at work is the #1 reason I haven’t given up on being a part of society yet. Mmhmm, I can already taste the type 2 diabetes.

Girl Scout cookies are heaven in a tightly baked, well balanced, easy to shovel into my mouth form. Seriously, those things taste like magic and friendship and so many other things that I’m sure will draw lawsuits from My Little Pony’s parent company if I ramble on to long. The serving size states “2 Each”, and I wondered why they would only give you half a serving with a box, because they MUST be referring to 1 box as part of the 2 each, right? I mean, who in their right mind could eat just 2 little cookies? This isn’t some pizza party where 2 slices should satisfy any persons hunger; girl scout cookies aren’t even meant to quell hunger, but instead they foster self-indulgence. These cookies are designed to boost your moral, put a smile on your face, and have you feeling satisfied as a human being, even as you realize you’ve become a literal elephant and consumed 1/5 your body weight in cookies. But while your body may be unable to move, your soul is enlightened, and all is forgiven, and you are nothing but a creature of pure light and love. And at the end of your feast, you get to pass out into the most wonderful, bliss filled sugar coma, with dreams of clouds made of cotton candy, mountains made of various flavors of fudge, and a thin mint cookie that isn’t thin, but regular sized (Is that to much to ask for, Girl Scouts?! I’m 25+ years old, I don’t need “thin” mints, I need “Thicc” mints. Make my dreams come true!!!)

So, in conclusion, the Boy Scouts should just disband, because earning an Eagle Scout honor is literal shit compared to giving another human even one crumb of the sugary allure that is the Girl Scout Cookie.

Except Samoa’s, those things are fucking garbage.

Posted in My Daily Adventures, My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“It feels like I’m thinning out my soul, turning once sturdy cider bark into bargain bin brown paper bags.”

You love me.

But your love,

It’s the same love

As the January Sun;

An abbreviated afternoon

Punctured with pockets

Of cumulonimbus skies.

Your kisses breed frostbite,

Coating every syllable

In a gelid timber.


But I found something,

Even if you are

Just passing through.

And it was enough

For me to latch onto,

Even if all I have ever held

Was merely a reflection;

I’ll reject reality

To keep living

In your light.

I exist to you

Only as dense air;

Slowing your time,

But you can’t, won’t stop.

All that remains

Are your refracted rays,

And the scatterings of

A cranberry glass heart.