One Way Mirror Trick You Bastard.

So I guess it has come to this.

Supporting myself, that is. On this, that is. A journal here, a profile there, a screen name far blasted away from this scenery of my reality. We've come to base ourselves on this. Waiting for someone to care. And to respond.

Time takes up too much time, yet I petition for more hours during the day. Somehow there isn't enough to satiate my time thirst. Quench me! I won't stand for it anymore. I'm going to write an angry letter.

To Adam Dean Cameron: Your services of good old times are missed. Please respond to Austin, TX. Thanks. Hope to hear from you soon.

A lot of issues have been on my mind lately. Not issues in the sense of troubled memories or those nasty teenage bulimic bickerings-- in the sense of: things, stuff, shit. It's been spilling out through my palms and thumbs, across my arm and forcing my wrist to twist. Hopefully these songs turn out to pleasure someone's ears.

You can't wait for everything, yet you yearn for nothing to stop you. You yearn for someone to scream at you, but all you're doing is screaming yourself. But you can't stop. It's the ol' one way mirror trick.

Good night Dear lady, maybe tomorrow we'll wave again.

Song #1

Two cents of you mind please Sir?
Did you rush it up?
Did you spill the cup?

Of wine, ivory, or magic things?
Of major empathies,
or even perfect dreams?

Do you have any regrets?
Would you...
Fold it up in your pocket,
and take it away?

Two cents of your time sweet Lady?
Of maybe wine or tea?
What would your preference be?

With ten lines of apologies,
all folded up real neat--
inside my pocket see?

Do you have any regrets?
Would you...
Fold it up in your pocket,
and take it away?

To your memories of Love's best,
and would you take two cents of mine
to save it up in this safe?

A safe of faded aways

Alone Room.

And then I'm floating. I'm just floating in outer space.

Twisting and turning through something else scary. Not scary like death, but a feeling that you've lost your arm or the cornea in your right eye. Like when you're a kid and the tickling won't stop--you laugh so hard it hurts; it won't stop; you scream out for it to stop; it won't stop; your muscles exhaust and your lungs touch your tongue; it won't stop; the knees don't come off your chest; it just won't stop.

Back to outer space. And then you're surrounded.

Sheet after sheet of black paper; floating on paints and pastels underneath rotten shoes and rotten bones. Like rockets strapped to my hind legs I shoot into whatelse. A cold damp room with magnolia stills and sandpaper walls. Of lavender gloom and misty fluorescence. Where two things blend unless you taste it up close.

But then you fall and scrape the walls only to bleed fingerpaints behind-- a mold of bug gut texture and slime of fishscale tint. The room is overwhelmed by glass and multipolyplastics; blue green visas shield eyes from UV sunrays. And tiny waves of ivory tickle rotten shoes and rotten bones.

And down I go.

And then I'm sitting. I'm just sitting in this corner cafe.

All that's between me is this buttered croissant and a dirty cup of water.
Me and this world. It's in the way.

Wa Wa Wa

I'm going home today. Back to a twin sized bed, home cooked food, and an upcoming rumble with my brother. It's unimaginable that I won't lay a friendly wallop on him--as he undeniably will respond by pounding my smaller frame into the ground. A weekend filled with more of this--this sloth of an existance, pulling hairs on Wednesday nights and shooting up on b12. This mindless array of neverending ends; you feel as if you've run into a brick wall. But that wall is pregnable--oh, how I know--yet once through its translucency, another comes to fall on your toes. But now my feet hurt and I want it to stop.

"Wa Wa Wa," says the hipster sipping his earl grey on my brink of Tuesday's disgust.

A hole has ripped in my left shoe. Whether it is the width of my foot or the poor stitching of some dreaming teen, I don't know. I usually wouldn't mind, it's just that it's raining. And my foot is wet.

"Wa Wa Wa," says the hipster setting down the needle to press upon that music which is only bearable in vinyl. "How unbearable." "How faux-pas."

I hate school. There, I said it.

Tip as you leave.

What can I say?
I can't say anything at all.

After all you can't hear with grass in your ears.