A sweet kind of sickness

It’s sticky and we can’t resist it.  It’s sweet and we need another taste.  Some sicknesses you don’t recover from, they merely go dormant.  Then you have that craving crawl up your throat and through your fingers until you have to feed it.  It isn’t pretty, it’s an addiction.

I’ve been trapped in honey.  I’ve been swallowed by the night.
Cleaning memories from my mind is pointless.  The honey is too thick.  The night is too deep.  I can’t come back from that.

So we indulge ourselves.  We try to live for the better and say we’re over it.  The sickness doesn’t show any signs at all, until you taste the softest sweetness and want to be consumed.  Until you see the darkest nothing and want it too surround you.

I’ve got it at arm’s length.  It’s biting and gnashing its teeth.  I can feel it’s breath, heavy on my skin.  I want to let go.  I want to drown.  Tell me not to let go.  She’s not there.  Tell me she’s not there.

Does he know he’s an asshole or is it just me?

Hey, asshole.  Do you know you are the way you are?  I’m genuinely curious if you have any realization about how much of a prick you are.  Does your arrogance hide your awful personality or are you completely aware of what a shitty person you are and you think that’s perfectly fine?

Hey, asshole.  Do you realize that you only laugh at your own jokes?  When anyone else says something funny you stare blankly and give a serious response.  You answer as if they were looking for words when all they wanted was a laugh.  You’re too good to laugh, aren’t you?  Unless you’re telling the joke, of course.
When you say something funny you burst into a hyena-like chortle.  You bellow loudly so everyone within a hundred yards has to stop and pay attention to the obnoxious man.  It lingers too as your voice changes and takes time to recover, because when you say something funny it’s worth it.

Hey, asshole.  Have you always been such a power-hungry snob?  You’re validated by making yourself seem superior to others.  Purposely being difficult to diminish other’s accomplishments.  Nobody knows things like you.  Nobody does things like you.  Anything done by anyone else isn’t worth acknowledging.

Hey, asshole.  You know you can let small things go, right?  The smallest slight doesn’t have to be rectified immediately.  The tiniest bit of perceived disrespect isn’t required to be addressed.  You don’t need to chase down the wrong-doer and have them sit so you can tower above them and explain why they were wrong.  You are such a god damn child.

Hey, asshole.  I hope you know I don’t like you.  I hope you can see it by the way I walk by and offer the smallest bit of acknowledgment of your presence.  The way I never say hello.  Why do you say hello to me?  Can’t you see that I have an extreme contempt for you?  Are you that self-centered that you think everyone must love you?

I hope you see what an asshole you are someday.  I hope its shown to you and you cringe from embarrassment and question everything you do from that day forward.  But I doubt you will.  Even if you don’t realize what an asshole you are, you’re so much of an asshole that I don’t think you can see outside of yourself.

Wasted nights

I’m drunk on stupidity.

A drunken man falling over himself because he couldn’t keep control is no different in alcohol than any other vice, simply less graceful.

Sabotage, gluttony, self-pity and the constant distraction from the unknown, they each hold their price and conspire together to trip me up.  I fall for it every time too.

I’ve spent precious moments banging my head against the wall rather than coloring in the cracks to make it less obscene.  Now I’m trying to save face by being pretentious and this is all garbage.

I can write.  I know damn well I can write.

She made me love her.  I didn’t want to, but I ended up doing it out of stubbornness.  She tricked me.  She told me she never wanted someone, she wanted everyone.  My ego caused me to take the challenge to be all of it for her.  And I was, for a short while.  I was until I wasn’t, but it stayed deep inside of me.  The time that I was couldn’t be expelled because her magic was too strong and it wrapped itself in the chords of my soul.  I can still feel them being plucked by her fingers.

So fuck it all.  Fuck the night.  Fuck the stupidity.  Fuck the distractions.  Most importantly, fuck myself for letting it all get in the way.

Too may wasted nights are spent banging my head against the wall.  The cracks should be vibrantly colored by now.

She writes in the margins

“A blank space never did nobody no good,”

she would say while filling it in.

She would write her words

and her thoughts

her tears

her smiles

and her joy

and her sadness.

She didn’t read books

she talked to them

and they talked back.

she loved their lives

and she lived their loves.

And well enough was never let alone

an ending didn’t mean it had to end

as long as there was some blank space to fill in.



When I write for you I feel invincible, but that only lasts as long as it takes to finish.  Then comes the apprehension of my finger hovering over the button to click send.

Should I?
Shouldn’t I?

I take a deep breath and hold.

Now comes the waiting.  My invincibility is gone and I’m surrounded by weakness and inadequacy.  I’m terrible.  I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said I would do that for you.  I didn’t edit it so please take that into account.  The words I wrote for you felt so strong when they leaped from my fingers to the screen and now they are not even close to good enough for you.

Never once did you return a negative word.  I could easily say you were just being nice but then you’d ask for more.  Again and again.  You’d be excited to read what I wrote for you and would edge me on to continue.  I’d considered quitting my job and spending hours a day holed up in a room with a small window for light as I wrote for you.  You drove me into madness and I spilled that insanity onto the screen.  I handed it back to you with my heart and you kissed it every time.

I love you.  It’s the only way I could write like that for anyone, by being in love with them.

I would write for you until the end of time.  I would make your character iconic.  The sexual dynamo that would be the envy of all.  The girl would become synonymous with sexy, smart and silent.  You’d be a pop culture phenomenon.
I want to write tomes dedicated to you.  Books of poetry with your name scrawled across the front.  Series of literature focused on you.  The Dulcinea of my life.  I will sally forth in search of adventure to claim it in your name.

Everything I do is for you because of the way you make me feel while I’m doing it.  I hope some day I can give that feeling to you.  It’s such an incredible high I want you to be able to experience it.

If I Were To Write

If I were to write a book it would be amazing.  My words would sing and swim along the page, the margins bright and blazing.  The font, it would be stoic with a great and solid strength.   The page numbers on the corners would whisper you its length.  Each flip of flimsy paper would take you hundreds of words deeper.  The word count with each turn would increase, getting dangerously steeper.

My book, it would have chapters.  They would be broken up by scene.  The characters would have adventures and romances, from careful to obscene.  The protagonist of my story would be a boy who meets a girl.  That is really all there is to life, there’s no other story in this world.

At first they would fall madly in love and everything would be grand.  You would almost be sick of how happy they seemed as they kissed or held each others hand.   But as with every story there would have to be some strife.  No one can have eternal happiness, that’s just not allowed in a literary life.

The boy would go off to war, or the girl’s father would not consent.  Their love would face a challenge or an egregious dissent.  All their friends, the townsfolk too, would gladly cheer their love.  But the father of the damsel had an opinion that would not budge.  The boy bound by duty would have to serve his country at war.  The girl left on the docks with tears as the ship grew further from the shore.

The girl missed him deeply and plunged into a depressed state.  Her only thing worth living for was letters delivered to her gate.  They came frequently at first, as much as he could write.  But as the fighting worsened the volume became light.  She thought the worst had happened when she hadn’t heard for months.  Other suitors began lining up, such as vultures after the hunt.

Or the father would banish the boy who loved his daughter’s heart.  The boy wouldn’t be good enough, an opinion made from the start.  The overbearing father’s rage would promise her to another.  She would threaten tragedy to herself and plead reprieve from her mother.  None of this would work so the boy and girl hatched a plan.  The would run away together and live a life on the lamb.

The boy at war would fight for survival and the girl would fight for love.  The armies and her father did not hold a chance to what their hearts could overcome.  The boy would make it home and take the girl back in his arms.   The girl would ignore her father’s demands and escape with the boy, free from harm.  Each pair the same and living in a life filled with laughter.  They stayed the course and true to their love were rewarded happily ever after.

My book would be completed, both front cover and the back.  The pages white, the acknowledgements short and the words all typed in black.  One day I’d see my novel on shelves in a book store.  They would be next to best-selling authors like Rowling, King and many more.  I’d be so proud of myself for accomplishing this dream.  One I’ve had since high school when I didn’t realize how much it would mean.  I’ll keep on trying to complete this fervent fantasy of mine.  The ideas are here, the writings started, now all I’m competing with is time.

Something When I Shiver

You know what I miss most about the summer?  Watching the sweat drip down your neck then disappear below a spaghetti strap tank top hugging your chest.  The way your hand drags across your forehead, the sweat pulling with it.
Would I be too forward in asking to have the honor next time?

That drip though.  The slow, darting path it takes downward along the front of your neck.  Disappearing into other beads of sweat and strengthening on its stuttered determination.
I’d like to press my finger in its way and have it pool on my tip.

Or, really, I would just want to kiss you again in the summer’s heat.  Remembering a random moment from while the humid air kept us in its clutches no matter where we hid.  The cold is setting in and all I want is to know your bodies sweat again as we peeled off our clothes and pressed into each other.  My lips would find your ears as our skin met in the rising temperature.

Then I’d whisper a tune in your ear and let it sing around inside.  I’ll not try to gauge your reaction and let it just come as it does.  I like when you surprise me.
Surprise me.

Honey lips, honey eyes
honey spread on my demise.
Hair of corn, colored canary
in my face, beneath I’m buried.
Skin of silk, smooth to touch
wandering hands moved to lust.
You make me weak you make me high
with your heart I beg to die.


Alright.  I’m doing it.  Taking the plunge.  Putting practice into performance.  I’m going for it.  All in.  Let’s do it.  Boxing gloves on.

I am going to attempt to write 50,000 words in 30 days.  That’s 1667 words a day.  That’s not so bad.  What makes it hard is writing them in a linear direction about the same topic and moving everything forward.  Heh.  I mean, sure right?

So…National November Writing Month (or NaNoWriMo) is a thing I’ve been aware of for about almost ten years now I think.  I’ve always thought it I’d like to attempt it.  The last few years I kind of hm’d and haw’d over it but when it finally came I’d throw a lazy hand at the screen and pull the blanket back over.

This year has been difference.  Or, at least since June of this year it’s been difference.  I’m writing consistently.  Maybe not every day but enough writing to fit in something for every day since about the second week of June (and I only missed two days in June all together).  So that’s 4 months straight writing something for every day.  Some days multiple things for each day.  Some of those posts I wrote were five or six thousand words each.  I think if I’ve ever been ready to attempt such a thing now is a great time to do it.

Of course that means I’ll actually have to focus and write in a comprehensive manner.  I’ll need to think of a story I want to commit to and write it to the best of my ability.  It won’t have to be perfect but it will have to progress.  The editing can take place after but now it’s just a point of getting it down.

In saying that, dear reader, I am probably going to have less creative works over the next 30 days.  I know, you’ll all miss my love sick melancholy but I assure you there is plenty of that to come in December and the start of January.
In the mean time I’ll do what I originally wanted to do with my other dead blog.  Have a kind of recap of my writing and how its going.  Mainly for my own mental dump but also for posterity.  I’m sure people will want to look back and marvel at the “what the fuck was he thinking” when I’m done.  I know I will!
I’m sure I’ll need a break and drop a few things I’ll whip up on the spot.  The creative muse peeks her head behind the red curtain whenever she sees fit.  It’s her nature.  I’ll never tell her no.  But, hopefully her ADD can keep at bay and she can help me along with this endeavor.

So…I’m doing this.  Lets hope it doesn’t get derailed in the first week by catastrophe.

Happy writing 🙂

Eliot & Thomas

Reading beauty makes me want to rage into the morning and through the afternoon.

The words so eloquently displayed across my eyes.

Travel through another’s mind and another’s time and I abide by their message.

I feel the words inside and let them swim along the outskirts of my vision

and control my breath while my heart beats in rhythm.

The blood flows through beauty and pumps because of it.

A set of life so precious that it might birth a split lip and boiled through the heat of my gaze.

I want destruction.
I want abyss.
I want chaos.
Reign down upon this world.

But the words remain of beauty that were once in their own tumult.

Spawned against a dropped curtain in their own time by those willing to scream into the night.

The voices have gone silent now, have they.

The mouths have been covered,
or told what to say instead of saying what needs to be told.

The hollow men have marched
and the dying light is all but faded
the rage has been smothered to a whimper.
What will finally kill it,
or spark a blaze again in fury?