Weatherman

The weatherman calls for rain, but then again it always rains here. The rain is cold and it is harsh against my clothes and against my skin. The rain comes down and it pours, and when it doesn’t pour it turns into mist that surrounds me to always let me know that it is there with me. The rain will never leave.

The weatherman calls for rain. He is an idiot in a village full of them. The rain builds up on the edges of the streets and seeps on to the sidewalk. The rain puddles look like lakes on the ground. I feel as if I am Jesus walking on water, but the holes in my shoes bring me closer to the ground than closer to god.

The weatherman calls for rain, but what does it matter? When it rains it pours and it makes days seem like weeks and weeks like months. Time stands still here only the rain and the weatherman are constant around me. Some days it burns and some days it heals, but its presence is always with me. I wonder what it would be like without all the rain.

The weather man calls for rain, and I assume my place once again.

 

Story blog how strange… This is a flash fiction micro tale about nothing inspired by my time in Washington State… Fun fact it rains there.. a lot.. I remember walking to work and dodging the tidal waves created by the city buses… For a place with so much rain it always seemed as the roads were flooded… Too broke to afford even the bus. I often arrived to work soaking wet.. It was very humbling and honestly some days I miss it. Maybe it’s the youth I miss… Not caring about anything… Of course that wasn’t even the case then… Everything seemed way more important than it ever actually was.. I worked in a fucking video store.. haha… 

Another reason I wrote this story was because I could careless about the weather.. Not the environment.. I care about that.. Put your fangs back in… What I mean is that I don’t care if it is raining or not… It either is or it isn’t.. So to me weather specialist are kind of pointless… Tying it all together… There might be some more symbolism in there somewhere… Not sure what it could be.. 

  

Broken Thoughts

I want to change the world, but I know it won’t matter. The wheel turns with or without me. The sands of time keep falling one by one whether I care to notice at all. I can’t take much more of this. This world’s retribution is too much to bare. A constant dragging of my body across a bed of nails. My flesh tears apart, but yet somehow stays attached. The bones of my broken body mended together with lies and dreams. My blood is all but gone. My heart still beats. Beats to the rhythm of my death. Slow, painful, and everlasting.

We add only to take away
If I take away all that I have become
Would I only be adding to what I’ve done
Taken away from what I become
An empty shell, Hollowed out heart
A lie from the start
Accept my apologies
I knew not what I have done
Only that it would destroy you
Extinguish this thoughtless idea
Sincerely everything I wish

How soon is too soon to know this is an ever passing moment? These feelings won’t last and then I’ll be left with nothing much. Regret and sadness mostly. Sit and smile. Pretend not to suffer ninety-five percent of the day. This is life. This is how most of us live. Wish I could drink the feeling away like everyone else. Like my heroes, but it does nothing for me. Magnifies my problems, my issues in such a way that it makes me feel even worse than before. Maybe I’m not trying hard enough. Could be my problem all along. How hard should we be trying to live?

I want to dance in the darkness of me and you
Our shadows create a cryptic sense of self
Our shadows in the moon light
Our shadows, strangling each other tonight
Ideas of love twisted with each passing moment
Your final breathes
Mean more with everything left unsaid

Broken Up Thoughts

I haven’t had an original idea for a while. Which sucks. My mind is like mush going over the same old stuff. Every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. They say I had a voice. They say I had one once. Now it has disappeared again into the abyss of fuck. Fuck it all. What does it matter? Tired of asking questions with no answers. I could be anything yet I sit as nothing. I want to burn the world down. Destroy every last drop of existences. Yet I’d still feel nothing. I have no contempt for myself or others. I say I have nothing and I mean it. Words are haunting whether truth or lies. I despise everyone in my life. I hate them all because they are selfish. I hate them all because they are me without trying. In other news I sold more books than I ever have. So that’s something.

 

It often seems as though dreams are nothing more than a way to get us through life. We all have dreams. What we want to become or get done with our lives. But I don’t know anyone who has actually seen them through. Goals change over time. One day we want one thing and the next something different. Dreams are where past, present, and future collide because they very often want the same things. It’s as though we are at war with ourselves as well as those around us. They say that to succeed you need to surround ourselves with people who can help you. What about those people like me that can’t stand others? Are we set to fail then? Are my goals and dreams nothing more than a waste of time? I often wonder if I should just be happy with what I have. A niche market of being an asshole. Of course you hear those fantastic stories of people who have made it and you set yourself up to fail once again. I’m tired of failing. There is nothing there anymore but sadness and pain.

 

Devils in the details
But what do you do when you’ve all failed?
Listening to your complaints
On a day-to-day basis
Has become insane
Feeling your thoughts is all that I have
But now it’s filled with too much pain
Sensory overload
My mind will explode
The devils in the details
But God failed so long ago

 

Wasting time until I can get by
Wasting away as if all is the same
I hate myself but I hate you more
Every passing moment is like an eternity
But it is as though time slips away from me
I could do more but it seems I do less
Was once told that I am depressed
Maybe I’m stretched too thin
If I could focus then I could understand
Wasting time until it is too late
Wasting away as if all is the same

 

I watch the sky
Even in the dark
Even on the darkest night
Watch it bleed
The truth is so hard to find
Deeply hidden behind
Each and every lie
Some where in the darkness
Just beyond the light
Lies something so true
No one can separate the lies

 

What’s left to say after all of that? Suffering alone with depression can be hard.. I don’t have it as bad as a lot of people I know… But I do have the anxiety and the highs and lows… Maybe that is where my writing comes from? Or maybe I’m just fucked in the head…. Who knows… It is fun to joke around about, but really that is a symptom of something I’m sure… No one can tell you how to live your life, but that doesn’t mean no one isn’t there to help you…. Sometimes it is family and friends, and sometimes it is someone else.. I don’t follow organized religion, go figure, but what they all have in common is being there for each other… I think that is important whether there is someone watching over us or not…

 

The Whore of Second Street (Vulgar)

The whore of Second Street was good when you needed her and bad when you didn’t. The whore of Second Street didn’t cost too much, but somehow it always seemed like you’d spend all your money on her. She didn’t do much, lay there and take it I guess. She also didn’t say much whenever you came to visit, but then again what is there really to say? The whore of Second Street became everything though she was nothing. The whore is but a whore the wise men outside the door would say. That is what she is and nothing more. The whore of Second Street lived just up the block from a bar called the Bullfrog. Her customers would stumble as they walked down the block. You could follow the trails of piss straight to her door if you didn’t already know where to go. The whore of Second Street didn’t ask much, just take your shoes off please and leave them by the door. Just because she is a whore doesn’t mean she don’t have class. All the men would stand in the hall with their money in hand for their turn with the whore of Second Street. Hours and days it didn’t matter she was always open in more ways than one. The whore of Second Street has no cloths she sees no point in spending money on things with such little use. The whore of Second Street was smarter than we all knew. She lived in an apartment without a view. Go to the top of the stairs and wait your turn. Directions we all followed. Directions we all knew. The whore of Second Street may not have been elegant, but she knew how to use you. Anything you want can be bought for a price and everything was in demand. It wasn’t long before the whore of Second Street raised a small fortune made of stacks of one’s, five’s, ten’s, or whatever her clients could get their hand on. The whore of Second Street let us use her body and it was all part of her plan. The whore of Second Street just somehow knew it was time, and one day she was gone. Her customers all wait her return. The whore of Second Street is worshiped as if she was a god. They pay her rent even though the apartment is never used except for mass. The whore of Second Street was all there was and now she is gone. The whore is but a whore the dumb men say as they pass each other in the hall. That is what she is and everything more.

Broken Up Thoughts

I can feel them the pins and needles of the world stabbing me from every side, every inch digging into my skin. It is as though I didn’t matter and we all know that I don’t. Nothing really matters yet we can’t leave it alone. Constantly pushing for more for less. We want everything even if there is nothing left to give. My mind regurgitates every thought I have heard. Churning out word after word as if I say it again this time it will matter. Writing is for the weak, simple-minded fucks who think they are better because they are. They aren’t scared to play God because they are Gods across a desperate landscapes. Every thought an action chosen because they choose it. Your life and mine is nothing but a back drop to a thought unfinished, a glimpse into a world not yet written.

 

“I’m pretty sure I have a brain tumor.”
“Oh and how is that?”
“My brain hurts in unusual places, but it’s all the same places.
“Places?” she asks skeptical
“Maybe I’ve got more than one?”

 

“American obesity at it’s finest,” I crack the closer we get. “You wait for it,” he says back. “This here is the greatest club in the city. I.D.’s boys lets see’em,” the bouncer stretches out his hand. We each put our licences in the palm of his hand. I’m skeptical of all of this. “Trust me,” my buddy Steven says nudging me. “This place is worth it.” “You bet your sweet ass it is boys. Welcome to the Big and Nasty. Don’t forget to come up for air,” the door swings open.

 

“Were you abused as a child?”
“As a matter of fact I was.”
“That explains a lot then.”
“Really does it explain a lot? I’d love for you to explain how being struck repeatedly as a child explains so much about me.”
“Are we fucking or what?”
“You got the money?”

This is how it all ends

 

Feels good to finally get these little pieces out somewhere. I have a lot of false starts as I’m sure a lot of us do… Brain tumor is an actual conversation I had with my wife… The Big and Nasty was actually based on a cheese burger at some fast food chain. Though the story wouldn’t have had too much to do with this. The idea was to write a story about some fellas going to a plus sized strip club. Besides the overall idea not having a plot it didn’t go beyond an intro. The plan was for one character to be a dick about the whole thing, another to be obsessed with the place, and a third discovering himself. I guess it kind of had a plot…. 

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Post Physical

My fist pounds. His blood splatters. My fist pounds. His cheek bone gives out. My fist pounds. His skin starts to detach. His face is nothing more than a broken mess. “What did I tell you,” I scream. My vocal cords crack from the sheer force of my scream. He mumbles inconsistent words of skin, blood, bone, and broken teeth. “I said shut the fuck up.” I lay one more bloody fist across his disgusting face. My knuckles are bloody, scraped apart by his teeth among other things. I stare at the monster I have created before getting off of him.

The room is silent though a crowd surrounds us. Camera’s pointing down upon his body before panning over to me. I break the silence as I start answering my emails once again. The click of the mouse and the clicking of my keyboard. Block them out I tell myself. I warned him before he set me off. Everyone is staring me down. “Should have done what I told him to do,” I say to the silent room. “He did this to himself. Who wants to ignore me next?” I ask and they scatter like rats. I’m not normally like this, but I’ve had a fucking enough of these dumb assholes. Someone needed to teach that fucker a lesson.

The cops show up and I don’t resist. “I just need to send this email,” I tell them. Puzzled the two of them don’t know what to say. I click the send button and get up from my chair. One of the officers handcuffs me as the other reads me my rights. They brought the paramedics with them. Silent, but not dead they load his ass onto the stretcher. In time he should be fine and maybe he will have learned his lesson. When someone says not today maybe you should back off. Of course his dumb ass probably missed the whole point. “That was one hell of an ass whooping you put on that man,” the tall officer says to me. “I think you got in the wrong profession,” the other jokes. They put me into the car. With a bloody knuckle I write a message on the glass in front of me.

Blood and Bone
Self Sacrifice
Now All Alone
I Could Tell
You a Story
But Then You
Still Wouldn’t
Know

 

 

Over Here Please

I’m constantly bombarded with these notions and ideas that I should be doing this or I could be doing that. It is as though everyone has an idea of what I should be doing except for me. The shitty part is that it is never what I am already doing. It is always something that takes a commitment that I just don’t have right now. This is what I want to do. Whatever the fuck this is, is what I want to do.

I may not be the best at it but surely I am not the worst. Of course that’s not what anyone wants to hear. I don’t make shit doing this, but is that the only reason to do something? Some days it feels like the only reason I can’t lie about that even to myself. Though I know that it is not true. Life is a struggle this career is a slow march through hell.

It takes a toll on you. Hacking one piece of you away at a time until all that is left is a bloody stump that won’t shut the fuck up. I’m nothing more than a tortured soul tortured by my own thoughts and views. A constant pain that no matter how much I say I’ll keep having more to say. Even if no one is going to listen. But that is the point is it not? To find someone to listen to what I have to say. A never-ending struggle without no real sense of a goal. Here’s to another long night saying the same old useless shit to myself.