Only because I’m listening to time of the season by the zombies
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wish you were here
The Trojan Horse has Nothing on Us
imagine for a moment the passion that must exist, despite everything else, between two lovers – enough so to create a new life. to procreate is to sit at that unfathomable symposium drinking the nectar of the gods.
the only weight worth carrying
born violently into a violent world
I will teach them to walk
and give them every part of
me so that one day their
legs and hearts will have
the strength to leave me
behind.
the sixty-ninth hokage
What might that world be like
where the curious monkey
never drank the rotten juice,
or consumed that strange alien fungus,
or took in those thick and billowing
clouds of smoke that emerged from the burning bush.
What might that world be like
where man sought nothing more
to stop the pain
than the works of thine own hands and fortitude.
Where it was never learned nor taught
that we were capable of giving up or giving in.
Where doing anything was better than nothing
and was everything you could ever need.
How those never ending city skylines
might reach out and kiss the heavens.
How the sidewalks littered with the hopeless
might instead be plated in the golden broken dreams
of those who didn’t resent them, but gave purpose to them
through contribution to the greater good.
How our children and our children’s children
would enjoy the shade and bountiful harvest of plentiful jungles
planted by those who walked before.
How the earth and all of its abundance might coexist,
only borrowing from each other with the intent to return with more
than was received.
How so many of those lost souls may have made it to the morning,
just in time for the light of the new day
to wash away those black memories we all have
woven into the organic and gelatinous fibers of
our DNA.
the future is now… (and it’s AI generated)
(A few pieces of AI generated artwork. The original prompts have been mashed up into whatever garbage this is. Sorry but your welcome.)
It’s your second wedding anniversary but your wife is literally in a mental institution.
A man too scared to acknowledge his God but even more afraid to deny him.
Like a dying animal on DMT, I try to laugh the pain away.
I just want to see what a computer thinks “the death of a dream” looks like because it can’t be worse than reality.”
because honestly wtf
Where might it be…
that those two exuberant bundles of light
who against the titanic foe of space and time
happened upon each other
In that one fleeting moment that was just wrong.
Who’s magnificent dance was so great
that in it they let slip away the world around,
finding themselves in free fall
delving into darkness, that wondrous light
taken from them in that vacuum
of pleasure and vengeance and heartache.
where might it be…
that those souls are given a chance
in that place where the rest of life dims,
happening upon each other not here,
but in that place where those things which
break our bonds are incomprehensible,
where love that is meant is able.
where that perfect place you find yourself in
is all you will ever need.
where might it be?
dim streetlights.
We walked the streets of some imagined imagined city.
You didn’t hold my hand. You said there was a party down the street.
I told you I didn’t want to go. That if we went we wouldn’t leave together.
You looked me in the eye and told me you didn’t need me anymore. You turned and walked away.
My subconscious knows it now.
Then why is it still so hard for me to accept?
lead
I stay up at night
waiting for something that
will never come.
It’s been so long
most nights I forget
What exactly it is that
I am waiting for
But when I do
And I think of you
My heart feels heavy like lead
Because no longer are you beside me
in my bed
and I miss your smile
your sweet sweet voice
that welling in my chest
that gave me the strength
to take on the world,
just you and me.
The Return
And after an unexplained and unnecessary break I have found myself returning to my writing. I have a few stories that I have been working on recently, both shotty and loosely assembled, but still stories just the same. It is becoming quite apparent to me that I need to spend more time developing my writing skills. I feel as though I have potential that I can not afford to let go unexplored.
Why is it the miserable so often develop an affinity for written word? Why have so many great writers died by their own hand? Why is it that those individuals that are blessed with the ability of storytelling seem to also be some of the most troubled?
It’s saddens me to see that so many people around me are losing touch with their creative minds. Cell phones are a plague, technology has completely restructured society, fuck the system…all that jazz. But really though, when I see dozens of kids sitting in the library staring at their game of “8 Ball Pool” on their phones rather than doodling or talking to the person next to them, it makes me sick.
Anyway, the rambling could go on for days but I will stop it here. I’m still not too sure how I’m planning on putting these two stories together but this will be the first place they will be available. In the meantime, I’ll be on here fucking around like always.
Night.
Suburban Youth 