Love is a greeting card.

Love is a word, because people don't know how to explain their feelings--I don't believe in words--You wake up one morning and everything is different, she's a bitch, and you're a complete asshole. You're snorting coke in a bathroom, and she's fucking her ex-boyfriend in the back of his car. Don't say "I love you."

words are already weak enough.

Maybe it's because my luck is worth shit. Maybe it's because I'm still unaware of how to start conversations, let alone carry them. Maybe it's because I need a drink. Maybe it's because i don't like looking into peoples eyes. maybe it's becuase i'm nervous to call people. maybe it's because i'm scared to do anything with anyone that i don't know perfectly well. maybe it's because i'm rude, or shy, or not shy enough, or too crazy, or too "out of hand", or not serious enough. Maybe it's because I don't talk enough, or talk to much.

Personally, I think it's becuase I curse like a sailor.

On second thought--

I hope you all burn in hell,

I'll be waiting to gladly welcome ya'll and give ya the grand tour.

Love letter to my elementary school dream girl.

I'm not a fighter. I've never been a fighter, I just don't have it in me.

I've been pretty fuckin' depressed the last few weeks. The reason: not even God knows darling.

I used to think I was socially awkward, but now, I think I'm just rude.

I've become an incressingly angry person, violence is the best therapy. I think I almost broke my hand today, I punched the a locker. My knuckles are bruised like hell.

I wear sweaters to bed.

I feel uncomfortable without a shirt on.

My body doesn't control my temperture too well.

I don't eat meat.

I don't sleep well.

I don't feel well.

I feel acomplished when my hands are dirty.

I wash my hands too much.

I think of people I hate too much.

I quit smoking.

I quit drinking.

I'm trying to clean up.

When I fuck up, I sit in my closet and listen to music, it feels like the only place the malignant spirits can't find me.

Whenever I get into a car, I dream about the driver falling asleep, or a semi wondering into my lane, or the steering wheel locking up, or the brakes going out, or a car running a red light and t-boning my side of the car.

When things get bad enough, I go running. Maybe I'm trying to run away from my problems. Or maybe I'm just trying to get hit by a car. I don't think road kill sounds like all that bad of a fate.

I was out running again, my usual route--to the library and back--I was about half-way through my third mile when the sudden realization came that I love you, and that I've loved you the whole god-damn time--and now is when I started walking--and then I decided that this hole inside me is gonna keep sucking the happiness away until your hand, or your ear, or your shoulder blade, or any part of you at all covers it.
I know what you want, and I'd be a disappointment it you settled this low. I'm still trying to figure out if God cares, if I can believe in words, if this thing called "love" is anymore then a word, but it's been so long since I felt something other then anger or hate or the lust to lay in my bed all day watching movies. Somehow you've figured it all out, I don't ever want you to hear me curse, I don't ever want you to see the disease growing across my brain. There is something here,
                                                                                                                                      find it with me.

mid-life.

Everytime I look in the mirror,
I watch myself die.

I watch my hair fall out
like the cigarettes i've been smoking
are actually working.

I see an old man
upset with himself,
for how he treated himself
and his lovers.

I see an old man peeling back his skin
like wallpaper,
letting the memories out
like ivy.

My hands are old,
my feet
tired.

I wanna go home,
so let me go,
please, let me go home.

Turn off the lights,
pick the feathers from my spine.

Open your mouth;

let me hear something,
let me hear something.

Paint a pretty picture across my chest.

Let the bloody lipstick paint my neck.

Scratch holes through my chest,
try to find my heart.

I don't think I'll feel anything.

Mustang.

"Bullshit."

"Actually I do love you, and I didn't fuck anyone Joel."

"Then what were you doing in the back seat of his car naked?"

Strap on yer boots.

new posts comin' soon.