Roswell.

My extraterrestrial brethren,
I am in need.
These lands are bare and foreign,
full with evils and ragweed.

I don't belong on this planet,
I am far too weird for mankind.
I'm stuck here with a brass anklet,
take me home, if you are so inclined.

I'll meet you in Roswell.

Yancy

masturbation stains
and silly blue clocks
merry-go-rounds and kisses on the cheek
yancy had it rough
but made a name for himself
trough fifth dimensions
and turntable disco dances
bad batches of smack
and fighting for life in hospitals
battles of destruction
war or the worlds
endless bombs and explosions
silence is so far away

Dogs Do Have Dreams

Handjobs and handcocks
Prostrating prostitutes
a sea of bodies
a body of fleas

a child hanging between two knees

a shameful look
a shameful dame
never goin' to be looked at the same
never goin' to be looked at the same...

A lake of fire
Ten thousand leagues
A place to house all the world's greed
In one man's eyes
In one man's eye
pent up forever
until the day we die.

Sick and wretched
Is this man's skin
Enough to mirror
This man's sin

The judge for all
The judge for all
The man we all know
For whom the bells toll

A psychopath
The path of paths
Dreaming of many
Violent blood baths

Enough to quench
The Devil's thirst
Not enough for
Jesus first.

The three eyed man
The blasted land
The sinners banging their tin cans

The man walks by
His three eyes cry
And one by one, the sinners die
One by one, the sinners fly

Forgiveness

Ignorance

The sadist

A mother's gift.

Repent...
Repent...
Repent...

The Shadow's A Coffin

Vision distorted, corrupted, contorted
Figures grotesquely dismembered and maimed
Ambling by with no meaning or purpose
Trapped in a shadow of sorrow and shame
Violently thrusting fists of disdain

The shadow, approaching, weaves in and out
I try to flee, I claw and scream
The shadow's rising and consuming all dreams
I look all around me, figures surrounding
Trying to find someone to blame

The shadow's a coffin
It happens too often
I need to get it out of my eyes
I run and i hide but it's always near by
This pressure, too strong, it could make someone die

An ink black world
It's all that we have
Hardly no hope for salvation
It seems we're trapped in damnation
Continuously drowning, yet we never die

The future rests...in innocent eyes

Truth Serum

This girl that I work with is one of those people that will never show any sign of weakness. She'll never cry in front of you, she'll never admit that something is bothering her. She's tough and she lives to keep up with that image.

But, tonight, she broke down and tore off her armor. She fell into my arms and cried, gasping for a comforting breath. I was so shocked to see her in this state that I didn't know what to do. So I just listened. I listened to every word she had to say.

For some reason, I'm just that person that people look for comfort in. I'm the person that people release their bottled angers and sorrows to. I'm really puzzled as to why. I know I'm a nice person, as nice as I can stand to be anyways. But I just don't understand.

Although confused, I'm more than glad to have been a good enough shoulder to cry on. If someone who normally doesn't open up to a single soul...opens up to me...that really means something to me. Somewhere along the line of all my bumps and bruises I've done something right for a change.

Maybe there is a reason for my existence after all.

The Human Robot.

This isn't really a poem or whatever.
It's just spaced like one.
I'm really horrible with words.
But this was the best way that I could figure out how to express myself through consonants and vowels.
Criticism is always welcome. Harsh or positive.
I don't give a damn.



I feel empty.
Physically, I'm alive.
Not so well, but alive.

I look pretty average.
No outstanding features.
I'm not beautiful, I'm not quite ugly.

I'm not tall. I'm not short.
I'm not fat. I'm not skinny.
Just average.

Average features. I get mistaken for someone else all the time.
Sometimes I wonder who that person is.
Or if it's just an excuse for conversation.

I have flesh and bones, just like the rest of you.
Inside...There's nothing.
Not a single thing.

Yes, I have guts and goop and all of that.
But I don't feel anything.
..Nothing at all. Not a god damned thing.

Often, I try to think of something to compare myself to.
The one thing I keep coming back to, is a robot.
Or a rusted tin can with a lug nut being shaken inside.

My problem is that I don't know how to express myself physically.
I don't know how to show any emotion. I have the same stone cold look or lost blank stare.
Although you can see me, no one really knows where I am.

I'm like a robot.
I'm only programmed to do basic tasks.
Eat. Sleep. Work. Work. Work. Repeat.
That's all that I have the will for.

I don't have the will to go out of the ordinary.
I stay in my cubicle, and I do what needs to get done.
No friends. No laughs. No play. Just work.

I hate being emotionally tied to a person.
I haven't made a single friend out of my three semesters here.
Because I can't. I can't let another person into my life.
Mostly out of fear of what on earth could go wrong.

There's always room for new people.
But I don't have time. I'm afraid to make time.
Every task needs to get finished before I can stop and breathe.

I'm like a robot because I exist to do what I am told.
Inside my mind races in a whirlpool of imagination and rebellion.
My thoughts scream and tear at the squishy walls of my brain.
But everything remains contained, and I do what I am told.

Silent Violence

silent violence
changes the fabric
twist in it
your methods are efficient
you are the end