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This city is dead to me

It died, panting for air

And searching for love long ago in adolescent dreams

Its inhabitants are like zombies

Nothing will stop them from feeding on their own addictions

Vomiting whiskey flavored validation

Gnawing at the genitals of their most recent victims…

Within every shadow sits a child

Cowering in fear

At the tip of every shadow

Stands a victim

Masochistic suicide

With preluding daily devoted masturbation

It exorcises the mind

Keeps blood flowing…

My thoughts are limitless

But my words, limited to pen and paper

Or the tapping of letters on a keyboard

Going blind to the flickering screen of a monitor…

But this is my asylum

A Place of solemn sanctuary …

I find it slightly more amusing than pounding pavement

Even though my knees bleed from scraping by

Slowly..

Sluggishly through this afternoon cadence

And still I keep my distance

More so out of fear than hate

I’m dying, more from my own poisons than from the vile I’ve been ignorantly pointing my finger at…

I keep lapping at the blood of my wounds

Addicted to the taste

Becoming numb to the pain

Becoming one with the infection

Like making love to your murderer…

Its all animalistic in the end

Then again, we are all just mammals

Warm blooded and defected with weakness

At times cannibalistic

Eating away at ourselves

Jagged teeth tearing through epidermis and jerking away at Rubbermaid muscle tissue

Until there’s nothing left

Until we are just another victim..

Made either by our own hands

Or the murderous affairs of lovers in stagnant corners of basements..

 

 

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Am I the Only One??!?

I got out of bed this morning with the full intent to spend as much time working on my draft to the second installment of my short story series and so far I guess it’s gone pretty well, but I feel like I’ve ran into a brick wall suddenly. I know what I want to write and I can see the story played out in my mind’s eye, but for some reason, trying to get it on paper seems more like a trip to the dentist than an enjoyable day of writing. It gets me frustrated because my life is filled with things I have to do. I’m a father of four kids, I’m attending fulltime school, I’ve been searching for a job, so when I actually get to dedicate some time to writing I want to see progress, not a finished product, just progress. I want to feel like I made at least a dent in my work, that I moved the story along or got to a mile stone, so to speak.

I often find myself looking around at others, on the internet or in life and become envious. I do, I don’t mean it, it’s just the way I feel. I become envious of their lives, how some people can just sit and write all day, every day, It seems like they don’t have a care in the world, no bills, or money problems, no hungry mouths to feed or messes to clean, or jobs to work. They write novels in a couple months’ time, and all I can do is sit back and ask myself; how do they do this? How can they have all that time to write with no distractions? How do they not let life get in the way?

To be honest sometimes I get discouraged, like it makes me less of a writer because the amount of time I can dedicate to it in my own life. I mean like I said people are writing novels in the amount of time I’m writing a 3200 word short story with editing. Oh and trust me my stories need editing. I seem to be a hoarder of words; I pack my writing full of crap and then find it hard to let certain un-needed parts go. It’s one of the biggest things I struggle with besides staring at a blank word document for hours trying  to convey something decent to paper,

Is there anyone else out there that feels this way at times? Like they’re less of a writer or find it hard to give it the time it needs because the distractions in life that have to be dealt with?

I don’t know, I should get back to that draft, I just have to write, good or bad, it’s just the first draft right?

The Interview

Straighten that tie

Comb your hair, neatly parted,

The smell of pomade emanates

Another set of eyes to impress

Another set of asshole questions to answer

A well met hand shake, dead skin cells flake from friction, they fall gently to the neatly buffed floor.

The exchange of dumb, toothy smiles, so easy and willing.

Whoring pleasantries through the clatter of footsteps.

Straighten up!

Knock that dandruff off your shoulder.

Don’t be yourself, not here….

The desk that divides, filled with documents and expensive writing utensils, hours of life bound with paper clips..

What are some of your strengths? Says “the have” to “the have not”…

It takes a lot of strength not to tell you what I really think! Thinks” the have not”, but he says differently…

His voice quivers with discomfort, spilling an array of bullshit… furthest from the truth.

“The have” pauses just long enough to let the sting of discomposure settle.

What are some of your weaknesses? “the have” says to “the have not”

Stop shaking your god damn leg!

Fold your hands in your lap!

Look like you have got some sense! ….

I can’t help but have a burning hatred for everything to do with people like you! Thinks “the have not”, but he says differently.

Again a story of brackish bullshit dribbles from his mouth, dry with a thin layer of nervous spit.

This time a well met handshake was tainted with sweat …

“The have” wipes his hand on the breast of his pinstriped shirt, watching “the have not” walk away

A document gets crumpled up and lands with a thud in a trash can found on the side of the dividing desk.

The sound is muffled by the clatter of footsteps…