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

There are so many wonderful people out in the world that I know things will only get better from here on out. I’ll do my part, and get out of the way of progress. Thank you all so much, and good luck.

I don’t like many things about myself. Actually, I hate everything about myself, except for my writing. As my self-loathing has reached critical mass over the past 5 years the only thing keeping me grounded was being able to get my feelings out on paper. I think my writing is very dark, but it’s true of who I am.

Maybe that’s why it sucks that the first time I let my Mom read a piece of my poetry she hated it.

I had my journal out while visiting my parents over the weekend, and my Mom noticed and wanted to know what I was doing. I told her I was writing, and she got really excited. You see, when I was in elementary school I used to write poems. I wrote sappy, shitty poems. The type of poems where they give you a prompt, and a structure, and you fill in the blanks with words. My Mom and Dad loved those poems, but those poems straight up fucking sucked. They were the billshit writing of a 10 year old kid. I wrote those poems in class because it was for a grade, not for myself. Those poems didn’t reflect a single piece of how I thought of myself.

So when my Mom read my poems and didn’t react, I knew I was in for some shit. She handed my journal back to me and faked a smile. I thought she’d throw some fake ass compliments my way and leave me be, but I was wrong. She didn’t even pretend to like what I wrote. She told me she preferred my earlier poems, because they sounded so much happier. I said I don’t remember any of those poems, because none of them ever reflected how I felt. She kept that fake smile plastered on her face, told me she thinks I’d feel better if I tried writing something that sounded happier, and than left.

I have to admit, I didn’t expect that. I never share my writing with those around me, because I never knew how they’d react, and I’m afraid of being told my writing sucks. I write under a fake name that holds meaning to only me, and I post on a blog. But I realize now the reason I never shared my work is because, deep down, I’ve always known it was shit. Because this writing, it’s 100% me. It’s honest and raw. I never sugarcoat a damn thing. I tell it exactly like it is.

But I’m an idiot. If the writing is 100% me, than of course it’s going to be shit! I’m a fucking piece of shit, so why wouldn’t writing about who I am give off that same vibe? I’m a fucking loser. I have good reason to hate who I am. So anything I do will reflect that. It shows in how fucking fat I am. It shows in how fucking lazy I am. It shows in how dumb, how inferior, how ignorant I am. And it shows in how shitty my writing is.

I had 1 escape, 1 thing tying me down. So long as I had my words, I could pretend I was confessing my sins, and I could trick myself into thinking I deserve to live. I’m wrong about that. These words only show how low and pathetic I am. These words reveal to the world that I deserve to suffer. These words are 100% me, and that means they have no chance to ever be considered anything other than disgusting.

I’ve lied to myself long enough. I keep on putting of the ending, but no more. No more arbitrary dates or goals. No more giving myself days or months or years to fix it. No more setting a timeframe to get things in order before I go. It’s high time I shut the fuck up and just do it.

Everything I write is 100% me. As such, every word I have ever written is complete shit. I’m not waiting for the New Year. I’m not giving myself a silly goal, like being below a certain weight by my birthday, or having completed some work/life goal within the next month. No more excuses. I have no value to add to the world. My life actually sucks away from the potential of everybody around me. I thought I was a 0 sum person, getting by on the knowledge that at least I wasn’t creating a negative impact on the world.

But I am.

And it needs to end.

I need to end.

And I’m going to end.

Thank you, everybody, for putting up with me. I know the future is bright for this world, because there are so many kind and wonderful people out there. And I won’t get in the way of your progress anymore.

Thank you, and goodbye.

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

Music Mondays: Tash Sultana

It’s been quite a while since I’ve posted a music suggestion, so to kick things back up I’m starting with one of my favorite musicians to watch live. Tash Sultana, there is nothing I can say that can properly sum up the life, the energy, the passion you put into your music. This Tiny Desk Concert is especially special, with the small desk making her already larger than life act become a literal mountain of sound. In particular, her track “Notion” is some of the greatest noise I’ve ever had the pleasure of pumping into my ears.


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

“The scales are tipped in my favor, but I’m too afraid to make a bet…27 years, and I’m still unable to bet on me…”

They say the sky wasn’t always gray;

There used to be a white light,

A star close enough to touch,

But we wasted it’s warmth.


We let that fire burn the air,

Tinge our shoulders bronze,

Feed our flower petals

And guide us towards tomorrow.


It shared everything, expecting nothing.

So what did we do?

We took those flames to light matches,

And the matches to ignite black powders,

Delivering hot lead through bodies

Of everyone we’ve ever held dear.


We got close enough to the fire

To light our cigarettes,

And spread the ash over gravestones;

A flicker in the moment,

And everything is turned gray.

We burned it all down,

And left our dreams as dust.


Where has the Sun in the sky gone?

The place where dead things go;

Towards the heavens drenched gray,

Choking the entire way.

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

The difference between a hope and a wish

I hope for things that have yet to come, and I wish I could go back and change everything. I’m nothing but a mess of what ifs, weighed down by a mountain of could have beens, and underneath it all is nothing but an ugly husk of questionable, molting moralities. Hoping is bullshit. It’s what those who lack the will to act get high on so they can ignore their own pathetic reflections. Wishing is kiddy garbage. It’s for idiots who can only make mistakes and never have the guts to break the cycle. Hope is for stupid people who think only of tomorrow, while wishing is for morons who can’t stop thinking of yesterday. I’m not sure which is worse, so I might as well fucking overdose on both.


“I hope that I can make up for everything, before my time is up.”

~I wish I wasn’t so fucking useless. ~

“I hope I don’t die without having accomplished anything at all.”

~I wish I wasn’t afraid of an afterlife. ~

“I hope that I’m gone before I have a chance to hurt anybody else.”

~I wish I hadn’t thrown those bullets out of the car window before I got home from work that day. ~

“I hope that when this year ends, it’s really the end.”

~I wish I had found the courage to take a few more pills, just enough to get some silence. ~

“I hope it stays warm through October; I don’t want to be buried in the ground when it’s cold.”

~I wish I had cut myself deep enough to bleed out. ~

“I hope I can do this before August; I don’t want to ruin my Sisters birthday.”

~I wish I could have died before wasting so much money on college. ~

“I hope that, when the Spring finally melts this snow, it can also melt my cowardice and I’ll be able to pull the trigger.”

~I wish I had killed myself before my first high school crush. ~

“I hope that I crash this car into a ditch and freeze to death; I fucking deserve to suffer quietly and alone before I die.”

~I wish a baseball would have hit me in the head during little league, so I wouldn’t have to live wishing I had the strength to hit myself hard enough to fucking die. ~

“I hope my death will somehow make up for all the shit I’ve caused throughout my life.”

~I wish I had jumped further from the pier, just far enough so my Dad couldn’t have jumped in and saved me, just far enough so that I would have suffered and drowned like the idiot 6 year old I was deserved. ~

“I hope that as this year begins, I don’t let it begin.”

~I wish I had never been born. ~


Wow, it’s truly amazing how pathetic I am. Hoping for an end while wishing that end had already come to pass, what a fucking piece of shit, what a truly disgusting, terrible, ugly creature I am. Fuck me. Seriously, just…I can’t even comprehend how fucking awful I am. Please, stop hoping and stop wishing and just pull the fucking trigger.

Just fucking die.

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

I’ve stretched out my soul to widen my shadow, the only part of me that seems to understand how much of a fool God must be for creating this bullshit.

The Summer flickers into the year with lingering regrets;

A medley of melted marshmallows and perfume laced bug sprays.

It’s not a storm like the Spring, raging in, forcing growth and change, no.

Summer stumbles with no direction, as if lost in all this sunlight,

As if the added hours of daytime and sweltering drafts have incited a lethargy

That takes a provenance in refuse cartilage of swollen anatomies.

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

It’s not Hell on Earth, it’s just Hell.

“People can break into pieces, and every single one of those pieces still has enough of us to feel, enough of us to love, enough of us to break again…We may only have 1 life to live, but in that life, a person can die more than once.”

I tried to wash this all away in a rush of pills and alcohol. It was one mistake to match every other mistake I’ve ever made, and all to soon I hit the bottom of every bottle within arm’s reach. The only thing worse than hitting rock bottom, is hitting rock bottom to fast. I’m already out of options, but the drugs haven’t taken full effect. I’m still capable of thinking and feeling, and since I am already at the bottom, I have nothing left but time.

Time is the enemy here; it always has been and always will. I’m at the bottom, but time followed me down, so now all I can do is wait. And waiting is the worst. I’m just waiting for the pills to poison my blood, light a fire under my skin that demands release. I’m just waiting for the alcohol to flush away any lingering, rational thoughts, leaving me to choke on sour breath and unvoiced regrets.

Yes, it’s all a waiting game now, the only game I seem to know how to play, and the only game you never have a chance to win. Every second I’m left waiting for the high to rip away my senses, a palpable fear filters its way into the cracks of my remaining humanity. I’m trapped in this crumbling reflection, and its hell. This is the lowest level of hell. This is the boiling sulfur, fire and brimstone, pray to your God and every God for just a shred of mercy, type of hell.  

Yet, through it all, time still crawls forward, and it drags my sorry ass out of that pool of fear and into an Ocean of nothingness. I blink up at the sky and wonder if I’ve gone blind, because whether my eyes are open or closed, everything looks the Goddamn same. I try to listen for something familiar, but as I strain my ears, I realize I can’t even sense a whisper from this saltwater room. I want to lift my head up, or sit up, or just wiggle a toe, but this saltwater is binding my exposed skin to the unshifting brine. I am trapped, and for a split second, the fear I’ve been swallowing swells, eclipsing my everything, and nothing exists outside of this gaping mouth of hopelessness that stands ready to swallow me whole.

But that second passes, and I’m just alone. I’m alone, without even my own thoughts for company. Nothing can reach me here, at the bottom of my upside-down Sea. Nothing can touch me, or burn me, or scare me. Nothing can choke me, or poison me, or rip me apart. Nothing can hurt me, because there’s nothing left in this world to hurt, because I made sure, I made damn sure, that I left myself nothing…

And even with nothing…I still wake up.

I know it wasn’t just a bad dream. I know that hell, that fear, that painful absence of any hope… I know they are all very real…but every time I do this, I still wake up.  

I know enough about my own shitty person to know how much is too much, and I stop short of pulling the trigger every time. Every stupid time. Every single stupid, fucking chance I give myself to get out, I fucking stop short! I’m right there! I can fucking see the end RIGHT FUCKING THERE! BUT I CAN’T DO IT! I CAN’T FUCKING DO IT! I CAN’T!!!!!

…I can’t do it…I should do it…I want to do it…but I can’t do it…

And it hurts…it hurts so goddamn much…

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


My very first post. And it’s about Ed Sheeran. I’ve been listening to this song a lot recently. It still feels so familiar, I love it and hate it.

That little light from your lampshade

Have you ever listened to a song that spoke to your soul? Ignoring the fact that you may be an individual who does not believe in the concept of the human soul, I’m sure even a person such as that has still been privy to the skin tingling, heart aching, mind numbing, and yes, spirit rubbing experience that is the perfect song at the perfect time. From the first lyric to that last ringing note, that song, that wonderful piece of art as sound through open air targeted specifically at the emotional strings we attach to our ears (which for the most part only catch negative words that turn ourselves against ourselves, but i++n this case work to catch that rare experience of one human fully understanding at least 1 piece of another). For me, that song came in the form of Ed Sheeran and his little dozy of a…

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