Fed up

With whatever this is

Going out tonight

With no intentions of coming home

You're nowhere to be found

And I'm not going to sit here

and wait for you to come back

It's clear we've changed

Things aren't the same

I don't know what you want

But I can't think of that tonight

Tonight is my yes night

The night I say yes to everything

I'll dance the night away with strangers

And chase away thoughts of you

with something strong

Happy Friday my love

Those of us that 

aspire to be great

are content with the everlasting

monotony of life. 

At least in the beginning. 

We tell ourselves

It's payment

for the awe inspiring lives 

we'll lead one day

So we're content 

with putting our nose to the grindstone

And depriving ourselves of sleep

so we can pay the bills

and work on our futures by night

Like a caterpillar 

we know we will one day

take on new form

sprout wings 

and fly away

But we forget 

that not all butterflies

are the same.

Some live years

and some live days.

With the work put in

one day we will get our chance 

to transform

but for how long we get to fly is not up to us

So we begin to question

the reason we aspire to be great.

Will we get to enjoy it?

Or will it be ripped away from us

at the very instant we obtain it. 

What if

God forbid

We accomplish our dreams?

What a terrifying thought. 

The chalk outline smudged

By the torrents of rain

As the killer is judged

To be clinically insane

And the family cries

Seeing justice denied

As the media tries

To interview them outside

When the killer walks by

He looks right at the mother

And with a wink of his eye

He summons the thunder

People wonder why so many writers write about the depressing moments in their lives. They believe that writing should be about the beauty in the world, and at times it should be. When it's convenient to be written about, the beauty will come. But for the most part, writers write about the sadness in their lives, the torture their souls have endured and the hell they know is still to come. And if one were to ask a writer why, he/she would simply respond "because it's worth writing about." The conundrum is writers can describe these horrid times in their lives with such elegance that would make a reader want to experience it for themselves. However, if the reader were to ever experience it, they would wonder if the writer could actually be considered sane. And, for the most part, the answer would be a hard, unsettling no. But we take pride in that. What's the use in being sane. Sanity is for the well adjusted and the ones that are accepting. A writer is neither of these things. A writer is insane. Because what does sanity get us? Stress and hatred. Sanity is what drives people insane. The only thing

that we should hold onto is our minds. Reality is

cruel but our imagination is the cure for reality, and

what better way to cope with reality than to go insane

within our own minds. Some might say that insanity can lead you down dark paths. But the beauty of insanity is that even if

it takes you to hell, you can perceive it as heaven. And that's why we write about these unsettling times from the gutters, because we sit in the mud and feel like royalty. 

every time love departs

I splice the nerves

back together, but

I'm running out

of slack and

low on lies to use

for twisting the ends

back together.

the numb spots

are like freckles

beneath the surface

and I fear they

may glow in the dark,

when the day creeps

black I can not hide

from myself.

dreams come to fruition

and the dreamers are praised

by those who don't realize their own

dreamers know what dreams are meant for

they know they're not to be wasted in sleep

for then they will never see the light of day

dreamers dream in the day

to act upon it with open eyes

and mend reality around it

It's dreamers that we aspire to be

to lift us from the dirt

and break the chains of our existence

It's the world that tries to hold us back

taking pleasure in those that give up

but dreamers, real dreamers, are the ones

the world will never defeat.

Maybe pursuing happiness is the problem

Maybe happiness isn't defined

by finding joy in everything

we do.

Maybe it's the ability

to live.

Live a life

Experience experiences

and love

as much as your heart will allow.

A home away from home

Thats where you’ll find me

Somewhere in the catacomb

Or maybe out at sea.

The prose can take you anywhere

be your secret writing lair

Help you get your secrets out

When you have something to write about

Because everyone there will lend an ear

When you feel like you need to disappear,

To, scream, shout, and laugh

Maybe just write a quick paragraph

The prose will be there for you

A place for you to cling to

A place where you can be free

To write, and be artsy.

The prose is like a family

Restoring my faith in humanity.