I write because it is right,
but not because it is not wrong.

My brain is unloaded. The bullet disappears. When I look away, it re-appears, with old fears.

I claim X just to ask why.

We used to use rulers.

A jar of beans sits in the front of the classroom. One by one we step up, take a shot, and miss. Whoever's closest keeps their wits.

Do I embody what is needed?

Why does everything make sense in my head?

There are no words in my head come to think of it.

Sometimes you're the bait.

But I'd rather be the boat, she says.

Of course she did, she's in my head.

And when I look for her she's gone again.

i didn't even write the next one. do something about it. it's by william blake and it's called a poison tree. it's about a guy who messed with the wrong poet.

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears
Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunned it with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine -

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning, glad, I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

Songwriters: LEN.NON, J.OHN W.INSTON / MCCA.RTNEY, PA.UL JAM.ES

I read the news today oh, boy
About a lucky man who made the grade
And though the news was rather sad
Well, I just had to laugh
I saw the photograph
He blew his mind out in a car
He didn't notice that the lights had changed
A crowd of people stood and stared
They'd seen his face before
Nobody was really sure if he was from the house of lords

I saw a film today oh, boy
The english army had just won the war
A crowd of people turned away
But I just had to look
Having read the book
I'd love to turn you on.

Woke up, fell out of bed
Dragged a comb across my head
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup
And looking up, I noticed I was late
Found my coat and grabbed my hat
Made the bus in seconds flat
Found my way upstairs and had a smoke
And somebody spoke and I went into a dream


I read the news today oh, boy
Four thousand holes in blackburn, lancashire
And though the holes were rather small
They had to count them all
Now they know how many holes it takes to fill the albert hall
I'd love to turn you on

"There must be some kind of way out of here,"
Said the joker to the thief,
"There's too much confusion,
I can't get no relief.
Businessman they drink my wine,
Plowman dig my earth
None will level on the line, nobody offered his word, hey"

"No reason to get excited,"
The thief, he kindly spoke
"There are many here among us
Who feel that life is but a joke
But you and I, we've been through that
And this is not our fate
So let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late"

All along the watchtower
Princes kept the view
While all the women came and went
Barefoot servants, too

Outside in the cold distance
A wildcat did growl
Two riders were approaching
And the wind began to howl
*buisness man there, drink my wine,
Come and take my herb.

dear computer,

we've already corresponded but in case you haven't heard the news, my dream is to stop bad people. people who've gone beyond what is reasonable, who've explicitely harmed women and children, beause these are the worst. people who aren't merely flawed, because passive-aggression by itself it typical, but physically abusive, rapists, killers, dungeon masters and those who dream of holding a butterfly in their hands until it stops breathing. these are the people who need to fall, and i can't do it alone. i can't hunt by myself - i mean i could, but those that are hunted are smart. they are willing to work together, but luckily they are greatly outnumbered. they would tempt death to molest someone, while we would tempt death to eliminate them. that is what is worth fighting for, and i need the help of others to make this happen. this goes beyond making up for personal mistakes and if they are the driving force behind this action then so be it, it doesn't matter. if you were to walk in on someone being abused, and your eyes didn't turn to blood on the outside, and water on the inside, you'd befit the life of someone bland, someone unfit to save the world. if you could read minds, perhaps you'd walk in on a pedophile every time the wrong person looked you in the eye. and what then? they fall.

The perfect diet for a mesomorph is no food in the morning if worked out yesterday, and berries/toast/banana type stuff if still tired from a workout. food should be avoided until the sun has started setting and if it can be avoided until the sunset has started get ready to get LEAN. at this point you should eat as much food as you can from chipotle excluding quesadillas. then a few hrs later have a workout. then have a bangin body and profit.

Breathing Life Into The Dead

It would be nice if this blog resembled something. Anything. I can't recall the last time I saw or felt or knew of something completely foreign. This blog is disarray as is my life, but luckily only a subset of which is that.

My life is dead on the outside and skeptically motored on the inside. Perpending is vital but addicting. And I am the laziest offender.

There is a circle, and I am within it. I built it from rubble and am afraid to leave it.

A circle brings comfort, while the other shapes are human. They envy the circle but want nothing to do with it. The circle can't see its own perfection. It can only wobble. It is from a dream and is foreign.

I've left the circle before, only to find myself unprepared for jagged edges, polygons and maths. And the smells! I didn't know what my nose was for.

Avant-garde, am I? No, not in an exclusive ring could I possibly be. I couldn't even spell it the first time through.

I can't leave the circle and I can't stay within. I'll slingshot it somewhere!

And maybe a corner will press on its side until it is no longer just a circle.

Maybe it isn't so foreign after all!

I read a strange book today. It was written with only one purpose: to bring the reader to a point of trust with the mystery author. It was coded, like everything, but I was too circular to crack it.

Most of my messages are too in code. This post is a string of floating passages in my brain that are being exposed in a way to weigh with meaning. But they don't, and I know it.

A baby mumbles and fumbles and the translation is life!

So I say, to life! And maybe the slingshot will bring to me a story to share. But I currently have none, so my fingers run across the keys, each step bringing me closer to a square. When I stop typing I'll be re-birthed and so will you.

PS - I wrote that in the Moonlight, with a little help from my friends and a rabbit. Well, no rabbit was present, but it seemed rather uniting.