The streets meet the defeated soul. So bold was he; as to rape the young woman, not once, but twice. Then the bullet in her head promised her silence. The sirens came near, but he fled the scene quick as a cat. The gun disposed of in a sewer of feces. His wrists on the pavement, slit by his own doing. The streets meet his fallen body. The sky cries on his face. He knows what Mom's will say. "My chil' my chil', what a disgrace" His heart slows, lessens its pace. He's gone now, their goes the c...

If you let them... They will burn you to the ground. They'll take the source of your intentions and eradicate the soul; leaving the smear of acceptance in every word you write. If you let them... They will murder you with fictional weapons. Your body becoming nothing but a factory of human waste. If You let them... I won't let them! I'll starve with the good word...

Today is a fallen-downtrodden-insecure sculpture. The creation of a tumultuous past. But rest your head on my lap for 24 hours. And if the tears begin to fall let them do so unceremoniously. It's just life looking for a way out...

Give me a spoon! I'll eat your soul. Then i'll cook up your brain and feed it to dogs that rub their noses in grammar. Lets go Shakespear, Sing me a fucking sonnet! Serial killer style? I'll leave that for the real sicko. I am kinda sick though, or so it goes. why? I write without thinking, and never think about writing. Fingers control me you see. They are my heart, lungs, and liver. The vital organs to the survival of me. Breath, puff and pass, No not the joint, the gift, and i got it from ...

I hear a voice that tells me I'm good, no great. I ignore it, walk the other way, take the opposite train, swim against the stream. I keep that voice locked in a chest; never let it out. sometimes I peek through the keyhole, and I can feel it exhale withered dreams. The day you start believing your better than what you are, is the day you are dead as an artist, no point in going, The voice continues to say that I'm great-or at least will be- well, shut the fuck up! Writing is enough for me, g...

I went to a private college, did about two semesters and due to certain circumstances was forced to drop out. One thing I learned in school is how tight a grip censorship has on everybody’s balls. Of course I mean that figuratively, so that it applies to the female student-body as well. I experienced the same while working for banana republic. (Banana, for those of you who have been under a steroid using horse for the past ten years, is a major clothing store chain along with its sister stor...

The computer screen scares me. I am terrified of that blank digital sheet. There are just too many ways to go wrong. I can feel the delete button urging to kill my petty ideas, their not much, but their mine. I just hope that I didn’t kill any good ones. That’s what happens when you worry about the critics-not that I have any; no one cares enough about my work. I like it that way, hope I never get recognized; It is the fastest way for a writer to become a prostitute.

A person doesn’t need much in this world to be happy. Me for instance, just give me a steady supply of liquor, a pyramid of tasty unhealthy foods, and a nice variety of pussy. and ladies and gentleman: you have yourself a happy man!

I hurt all the time. The pain in the center of my chest does not reside. It clings to me like the stench of a wino after a drunken night. Drinking is the only solace left for me, my place of hidden wonders, where I can leave the pestering crowd behind and let them kill each other in their own hell. I am a walking contradiction. Isolation is my best and dearest friend, yet I crave for the company of someone-anyone, but I am sure that once my wish is granted playin the recluse will become a nec...

I use to want to be a writer at one point in my life. I thought that I knew something about life that others might appreciate. I’ve come to realize that fear (the kind that holds on to your throat with an iron hand) will never allow me to become anything but what I am today: A lonely drunkard, too prideful to accept pity, let alone the gift of a better tomorrow.