Staring at a blank page as if it were a psychological test
Using a black ballpoint pen as a makeshift pistol
To keep himself from the one he stores away inside his drawer.
Afraid of writing about the things he has seen
Unsure of how to write about the things he has not
Or how not to write about the things he has.
Aware that his words are much more violent then his hands
And his mind is far more grisly then his words
But a fear coincides none the less.
Anything that he’s written, someone’s already done.
What’s worse as it’s read it breeds life for another
But the worst not even he can comprehend.
No one can talk of the worst of us, for no one that’s seen it has survived.
I wonder what Upton Sinclair would do if he met Hannibal Lector?
Anonymous asked: And sometimes, I wonder if your palms are as tired as your fingers are. I wonder if I will ever stop counting the out-of-state plates that pass by to remind me of places that I cannot be, lovers I cannot hold, you, you you, you you. Where are you?
Nowhere. You should come visit sometime, you’d like it here. It’s quiet, our kind of language.
Last night at around 4:30 A.M the local subsidiary offices of the internal revenue service was robbed, by a group of unknown assailants wearing all black with cheap Halloween masks over their faces. The money has not been traced back to a single source but rather scattered around town, given to the local shops and family’s as support through these difficult times. A note was left at the scene of the crime reading “ We are not stealing this money, we’re merely giving it back to it’s rightful owners.”This group of thieves carried concealed weaponry with them, rather then big flashy assault rifles. They are intelligent, humble, and seemingly follow a strict personal moral code and thus must be considered armed and dangerous at all times. Security has been tripled near Brooklyn National Bank, the rumored next spot for the Robin Hood esque sociopaths. Their numbers are growing, and with the support of the people the political and law enforcement groups in the city are becoming concerned. These men are different from your average criminals in the sense that they take only a small cut for themselves and their families and give the same cut out to each family in the city, 10,000$each. They have silently become this city’s heroes, and are now in hiding waiting for their next job.
Each man is carrying the city on their back, with the brunt of those designed to protect and serve it out to destroy them. Each man is more desperate then the next, with a different skill set. Each man is doing all the wrong things for all the wrong reasons. Each man waits to be caught and killed.
The police know where they are going to go, what they are going to do, who they look like, and how they will do it. The only question is, who are the police really helping here?
Short and sweet, everything a distraction from finals week should be.
We walk in to what seems like the calls of the wild, I grit my teeth and do whatever I can to muster up a smile
And recant a story of the days when we were waiting for school to end, the awkward conversations of secondhand friends
I look back to notice just who’se passed out on the floor,…
this is my friend Johnny, and he’s brilliant and kind and hilarious and everyone should love him and he’s mine forever ok thanks
There’s a softness in your voice like the winter snow in footsteps
At once so different and instantly noticeable, seconds later gone away
A sign for those still searching, fleeting but recognizable
This is where you can go to find me, if you follow I won’t be far away.
This can be your home in december, when the bitter cold stabs at your skin
In my ribcage your name will reside, until the coming sun blots out your face
Come springtime you’ll just be a memory, the chill that shakes me from within
But I’ll just be a memory too, lost somewhere between time and place.
Come summer our ghosts will come join us, and we’ll have new memories to make.
I’m writing memoirs in the form of blank pages
To show you how your silence speaks volumes
In a language more foreign then your star crossed ideas
A tongue I’ve encountered but never understood.
It’s like this.
When you break your leg, you can’t move. It’s debilitating and blatant, for good reason. You stop and ignore everything else going on and just deal with that until it get’s better or you can deal with it, because you have to. It forces you to re-evaluate things and forces everyone around you to notice it. That way it can heal and improve. When you get a tiny little mark or scar, you don’t expect it to really bother you so you don’t pay attention to it. You leave it alone in the hopes that it’s going to heal on it’s own, and focus on the broken leg. What you don’t know is instead of healing it just seeps into your bloodstream and you get infected. Sure it doesn’t bother you at first, but eventually you get more scars little by little and the infection grows. Soon enough you’ll be covered with little tiny scars that you never even cares about, bruises the size of nickels and dimes. You won’t be able to move because the bruises will cover your arms and legs, and the broken leg won’t seem to matter anymore. This is what depression feels like, what life is like. That emotionally traumatizing ordeal you’ve fought so hard to get over will mean nothing if you can’t get over the stress of your day to day. You’re fighting a war by killing the soldiers and constantly running, unaware that your own fatigue is going to do you in. Pay attention to those little things, because no one else will. Hell no one else can probably see them. It’s up to you to be your own hero.
It’s not the bullet that kills you, it’s the thousand things that led up to it.