Black Sheep

I look around and realize I’m surrounded by anomalies…  an orgy of uniforms and collected conformist in denial of their true form. I admire how they grope each other, stimulating a blood rushing erection of hypocrisy. Their voices loud and well heard, their protests bright and colorful…fuck the man!  They say. Fuck the man and his machine of oppression; they scream in between solid puffs of name brand cancer. Look how the skin of their fingers shrivels from the beading condensation of a beer can. I’ve watched them throw themselves into drunken trances congregating in social ranks, spewing judgment, finger painting their names in the blood of most recent back stabbings.

Antisocial you say? You are nothing but a character in a play, teetering on an axis summited by mainstream theology. Go ahead, take another swig of your cheap beer and burn the label black sheep upon your chest. It’s the joke that makes up your physic; it’s the skin that sags along your week and brittle bone structure. It’s the lie you fuck every night before falling asleep next to your one night stand and snuffed out cigarette butts that float in the monkey piss of semi empty forty bottles.

You see, I am that black sheep you so long to be, I’ve learned to take comfort in the icy shadows bouncing off the cold shoulder of society. I am that antisocial fuck lingering on the outskirts of the inside. I have no real interest in your thoughts, opinions and mortal day to day judgment. I stray from your hang out spots and avoid the hipsters in black sheep’s clothing that I’ve found you to be.

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The Night Cries..

I step into the light, my weaknesses squirm to hide themselves,

They search for cubby holes etched within the tree of my soul..

I step back into the shadows, they suddenly rush at me, charge at me like a declaration of war..

Their serpent like bodies coil around my mind, around my neck, around my legs…

I am but a prisoner within a shell of a being..

I am but an infant within the shell of a man..

I am but a man within a shell of a world…

Is there no escape?

No release from these binding imps??

How they claw at my insides and scratch at my eyes..

Nothing of me is left pure; all is tainted with morsels of impotency..

Oh and how the night cries for me…

Oh how she weeps from the corner of her bed post..

Her tears paint  her vast breasts with an alignment of stars..

Her sobs softly kiss my exposed skin..

Shadows beneath the Street Lamp series, and some ranting..

I have been working eagerly on the second installment for the” Shadows beneath the Street Lamp” series and I’m really excited about the whole thing. My goal for these stories is to bring the readers to the dark corners of life. I want to grab them by the back of the heads and force them, so to speak, to look at the people and areas of life we tend to overlook or pass by. The black sheep, the crazies, the steaming piles of shit we drive or walk by on our way to work or school, that we seem to ignore the existence of. The people we tend to immediately judge as losers or nobodies, the mentally deranged. I want to bring to life the thoughts inside their heads, the battles they have within themselves, their addictions or obsessions.

My style of writing is very gritty, the best way I can describe it, is like watching a Quentin Tarantino flick, but in no way do I feel like I am as good as him. I’ve been looking around, reading other blogs and also work form other writers, searching for something interesting or inspirational  and I’ve noticed a lot of talk about what being a writer is. I have almost disagreed with every quote I’ve seen so far. I think a good number of people romanticize on the stereo types of what a writer is and strive to feel a part of those ideals. I want to clarify what a writer is for some people; a writer is a man, a woman, a mother, a father, a wife, a husband. A writer is me, it’s you, it’s the guy next door, the lady at the grocery store, the man struggling to pay his bills and take care of his family.  You don’t have to be anything or fall into certain guide lines to be a writer because writing itself is an anomaly. It’s an art that you should feel free while doing, not feeling like you have to be the bohemian asshole leaning out of some slummy apartment window smoking cigarettes and gulping at bottles of liquor.

All in all, I don’t want people who think of themselves as prestige writers to make the rules for other people. I don’t want to be told what I have to be passionate about or how to live my life; I just want to be me and nobody else. I want to write for me and nobody else, yes I want people to read my work and enjoy it but, I don’t give two fucks in a whores ass what sells and what doesn’t, if my work sells it does and it did because of the way I wrote it, and I wrote it because it was in my head.

Anyways, enough ranting from me, if you haven’t checked out the first installment : “Lullaby for a Lost Soul.” Please do, it’s free and I hope you will like it. Here is the link….

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/237411

Reflections…

A reflection stares back at me from the mirror of my mind,

Gleaming, shattered shards of glass

Neurological pressure points and path ways twisting and bending rays of light,

Distorted conceptions….

Like an image in the water, dispersed into a million ripples

Never ending tiny waves within waves,

Like how the world sees us,

Thousands of optical tunnels leading to tiny waves of electrical pulses,

Sporadic stored judgment,

This is a failure with in us all…

Programmed from birth,

We believe the lies depicted from the mirrors of the world,

And sometimes….. The lies that glare from within ourselves…