Smothered by my own hands
I see more whites of eyes than irises
So sucked up, I'm dry as sand
I'm behind more scars than desirous


Enemies all become my friends
As they all see what I see
A hound without a scent
And acres of flame covered seas


Records strewn all the way-
All the way through the pavement
Manilla rain covered lawns
Filing blades for the bankrupt


I'll be walking one day
And disappear the next
An ethereal wreck recluse 
A posthumous ether left vexed


It's a burden to feel that way now
So benign, such a coward with no will
There are stories now no one tells
About boys without fathers or real skills...


About floral curtains stained with shame
From a fearful mother clutching plaits,
Dusty feral creatures and nicotine stains
Damaged walls from support beam breaks


These are the tales too often told
Terrors speciously muttered during sleep
So afraid of change becoming old
Superficial now even in our dreams

You have mirrors for blinders

So you came here. What a feat! You made it. And I'm sure you proved some great paradoxical point to your psyche...that you can reach your giraffe-like neck into my jungle. Congratulations, I sincerely hope you fed cleanly- that your tongue clasped the right branches. It didn't: I'll say that much. Because if it did...I believe you may have never left. You may have stayed to help ease the desolate landscape's effect on me. Perhaps the salt didn't sting- perhaps it took no effect at all. I am here to fix myself- to become...to ascertain what responsibility is. As a man, in my cliche gender role, I reflect my actions directly; therefore, I must become self sustainable and socialiably presentable to the working world. The civilian sector: an establishment all too familiar with my type; too smart for his own good and lazy, they'll all say. Wish you were here,

Bitter as fuck,

Conn

Am I a monster?

The drinking, the babble, the scuffles and the stories- sure, I've got that down. But am I a writer? No. I am a fucker, a braggart, a lying monster. A writer writes! Producing page after page of shit or glory- but it's done! The paper sits in stacks! The writer has piles of notebooks containing late night scratchings from horrific dreams to illicit and terrific sex! What a life I lead. Torn by talents i possess that won't let me go. Many of my literary heroes have said they started writing because it was all they were good at. Well...I don't suck at an impressive amount of things! And I get little to nothing done as a result of juggling for fear my time is running out- an impending fear due to my wasted youth (all puns intended).

When I write with the flow, it comes out in a paragraph or two and then stops. When I play the trumpet, only haphazard wannabe Chet Baker sadness plops out. Producing music is a wonderful passion but my lack of technical knowledge kills my buzz quickly. Drawing- my art pieces are few but some say wonderful. Then I look around and see what else they call wonderful these days and want to stab my eyes out with driftwood. Juggling is fucking dangerous. However, it conjures up feelings I once had as a kid: you can do anything you want. I laugh at my own dreams these days, I really can't help it. So until I offer up some kind of meat (writing wise) to the table, I'm a tormented wannabe. Aren't we all?