Nikolas Cruz

This emotion is deeper, more thoughtful, and less instinctive than anger.  Growing stronger through reliving, understanding, and judging. It burns hotter within and changes the form of what contains it. It’s not about reacting, but instead a calculated desire for painful and hateful justice. I don’t just wish to punch back with the same pain

The Truth is Ugly Today

At twenty-three I’ve been with 4 women and loved maybe two; And one of the two I never had actually been with, but loved regardless At twenty-three I don’t know what love is, yet it controls me Love is something like unwavering conviction to something you value   Love is permanent yet it loses its

A Lull

There’s been an artistic lull in my life. My mind has been stagnant lately. In a practical way my life is full of sustenance. My body and intuition control my life; there’s not much time for pondering when you’re doing what you want to do. Life has been active, and events and opportunities come my

Weakling Cesspool

Seemingly strong and powerful, but really weak. You fight the pathetic and weak—weaker than you. Validation is the name of your game. Your hunger never satiated because your meals have no sustenance. So you eat the pathetic nothings—and they come crawling to your ugly beauty. Your scent powerful, your glow incandescent, but there lays no

Petite Thing

There’s a pattern that my mind has recognized: petite girls develop insecurity through their less than perfect sexuality, as a result they use deceptive tactics on desperate men to validate their sexuality. They ask you out, knowing you’ll come crawling—broken spine and contorted just to get to them. Ask them into your world (say, to

Dead at Sea

Once again, he was disoriented.  He hoped for inspiration to come; there was no more spark, no more catalyst within him.  External energy was required for him to create art.  This is what he wanted: to create art.  But he couldn’t fight the destitution of his life—paying bills, grocery shopping, observing automobiles as they zoomed

Gertrude

Brain fog, limp dick, half ate chicken breast in front of me.  Today is dreary.  I barely feel alive.  Can’t finish the rest of my chicken breast.  Gave away two loads of swimmers that could have been saved to shoot into someone else’s hot wife.  The emptiness and dullness of today is enough for self-mutilation. 

To Whom am I

Writing for the sufferer Weights for the social loser Mountains to climb for the madman Music for the emotionally sensitive Netflix, wives, and husbands for the soul robbed workers Alcohol for the man that has nothing Nothing for the recluse who wants nothing Whatever consoles is based out of who you are To whom suffers

The Stumbling Why of Writing Horse Shit

Sticking to the things that I like A like, meaning ease of effort and comfortability Vance Joy instead of obscure avant-garde jazz which expands my ear pallet Humorous poetry lines instead of rhythmic goodness A rhyme is too forced Too constricting Stifling self-expression This is why it’s reverential: Being able to express yourself in narrow

Scared and Sad 167 pound Man Singing the Blues

Beat down like a pitiful dog. In retrospect I wasn’t as lonely when I stayed home alone, read, wrote, and played guitar. I go out and socialize with the less precarious and confident selves. They seem genuine, even when talking about The Game. For me it feels pretentious to say hi how are you. Dancing