Dream of a Nightmare

Words don't come as easy

As they used to, you know.

Pained and struggled, staring

At the computer screen, wondering

Wondering why the words are

So hard to form, why the

Page is full, and blank.

The words aren't as

Inspired as they once

Were. Leaving me, alone

In the dark, wanting to do some

Thing creative with my

Words. Only to be

Shot down by

My own

Mind.

Adderall dreams

Fill my head with sorrow,

Guilt and euphoria like never

Before, and yet I've been here all

Too many times. Wondering

Down the dark, bleak

Streets of Venice.

Contemplating

Life.

Coffee stains on

The rug, water pouring

From my pours, escaping

The poisoned body they once

Inhabited, they once called

Home. Littered across

My room are the

Dreams of my

Nightmares.

A life I once

Could only dream

Of, a life filled with

Love, ambition, and, of

Course belonging are only

The dream of a night-

Mare long past.

The words

Come

Slowly now.

Many Apologies Coming from This Dude Right Here.

    As the title says, many apologies for not being on.  I am neck deep in my first novel.  One that I started a number of years ago, but never got around to editing it fully.  May I say, it's a good-un.  Though I will just self-publish, instead of getting an agent, because I A) don't have the money for one, and B) I'm not too much invested in this as I should be.  I guess I want to do other things with my life right now.  I really love writing, but I can't find the time for it anymore.  Yet another reason I haven't been blogging.  I really should make the time, but it's getting down to the end of the year, schoolwise, and it's crunch-time.  I guess I'll have more time once school gets out.  Well, I will hopefully have a job by then, so it's really up in the air now.  I'll start posting things when I can, I just can't do it everyday like I promised. 
Again, many apologies from me.

Happy reading, from yours truly
Richard.

To C

I met you and fell upward
To the bliss
Of sunshine and the sweet of a rose
And with the power of a kiss,
I fell to the sky.

I thought I would bleed
For you, but I found myself
Upon a midnight reading
Out from my lonesome shelf.

The picture on the page
Dances in my head wile
As this bird flies from the cage
Made weak from this child.

The voice of my past
Cannot last
This straining of my heart
He died whilst speaking his art.

In the Mood to Destroy Something Beautiful

    Lately I've been in the mood to destroy something.  Something beautiful, and preferably non-living.  Like burn the Louvre and wipe my ass with the Mona Lira, as my copy of Fight Club says.  I don't know, man.  I'm usually not that kind of guy.  But lately I feel like it.  I might as well enjoy it, since I've been labelled a douche for the rest of my high school career.  Two months never seemed so long.  In a sense I have destroyed something beautiful.  I really did, if I think about it.  I guess that's why I feel this way, the whole 'fuck it' attitude.  I'm going to be in school for two more fucking months, then bam.  Real life.  I honestly think I should live as much as I can now, before life kicks in.
    Adolescence is a twentieth century invention, I've heard that a lot echoing through my mind.  The more I think about it, the more I realize it's true.  We are a generation of men raised by women, a generation of women raised by the media.  I'm still unsure if another voice in our heads is for the better.  Freud's Superego has been amassing an army.  To fight the moral fight of this stillyoung century.  I've been debating whether or not I should just opt out, or pick a side.  One thing that still gets me is my knack for picking a side unintentionally.  The Id has been amassing an army as well.  Set up to fight the Armageddon of the New Age.  Maybe that's what all that biblical shit is about.  Morals, since, the bible can be boiled down to a book of morals.  A HIGHLY symbolic book of morals.  You know the drill, God is in each and every one of us, blah blah blah.  But once you think about it, all those hippie shit "freethinkers" have got something there.  Makes me wonder if my senseless hedonism is worth it.
    Then I think, "well, if the world is going to end, then fuck yeah."  Still a resounding argument from the Id.  While the Superego is always nagging, "get your shit together, be a good person, blah blah blah."  This goes on each and every day inside me until I have a headache that could part the Red Sea. 

Arm thyselves for the coming war.
And as always, happy reading.

Spaceship Earth

I sit under the spinning blades of

The skies churning, churning, and

I cry.

My life interrupted, once again.

I wonder if time is cyclical, if

I could really go back. But

What would I do?

Be locked away for raving

Nude in the parking lot of my

High school? Scream at myself

Again raving nude in the classroom

I once called Home.

Now all I can do is

Submit to the will of the

Opium drip drip dripping

Through my veins

Praying for an overdose.

An “accidental” death to

Justify my exit stage left from

This spaceship called Earth.

While I sit here, under the

Spinning blades of my life

I cry.

I scream to the gods to just let

Me die, to let my breath escape

My body, one measly second

At a time.

Profoundly intoxicated by this

Prophetic substance, dreaming

Dreams I once thought impossible.

I see the muddling existence led

By others sharing my pain.

I am sorry.

The only thing I want at this

Holy moment is to wander the streets

Of San Fransisco Portland and open

A heavy iron door to steam I know

Is Heaven. The holy moment

Enshrouded by this holy vapor,

THIS is my home.

Nodding off to the sick sounds

Of nothing there. Of parents and

Coworkers wonderingnotwondering

Where I am.

Who I've become.

If I'm safe.

Because on this spaceship called Earth,

No one is safe

Save enshrouded by that holy vapor.

Once I thought there was a title, but not I'm not so sure

    My apologies for not posting yesterday.  Busy busy busy.  Trying new things, sobriety for one.  Also, it's been a while since I've cried.  It felt good.  Almost feel like doing that now, if my eyes weren't burning out of my skull.  I honestly feel like a late night would be good for me.  Perhaps it would, I don't really know anymore.  Watching On the Road (the movie, I didn't sit and watch the book for two hours) really is making me want to live that life.  I've caught the Beat bug once again.  I only fear this won't be good for the likes of me.  Part of me wants to live a short life, burning twice as fast.  I am unsure that I would be twice as bright, on the other hand.  I've led that life, and it almost killed me.  I don't know if I want another go at that.  But goddamn, a drink sounds really good right about now.
    I've decided to live out of my notebooks from now on.  I love the feel of writing longhand.  It gets my ideas out in an organized way, as opposed to scrambled and put together in a very short amount of time.  Writing longhand helps me write better.  So, as of now I'll be living out of notebooks.  The trouble is, I always feel weird writing randomly in a notebook in the middle of class.  I am paranoid that someone will call me out on it, read over my shoulder, or make fun of me for it.  Though, the little fucks in my classes aren't really worth feeling hurt over.  Alas, the pain is still there.
    A lot of the time I feel as if I was born in the wrong era.  I have been obsessed with the Beat generation for a long time.  Though it went dormant when I got sober.  So now all I can think of when I think of the Beats are drugs.  I don't know if I can ever feel that same passion again.  That passionate wide-eyed sweat that comes from reading Howl, that wondrous and infectious thought that the truth is out there, somewhere and all that I have to do is search for it by any means necessary.  The senseless thoughtful hedonism that led the generation to literary legend.  I want to feel that again.  At the same time, though, I want to be healthy.  I want to be stable and I want to make something of my life.  Isn't the whole life of an artist devoted to chance, passion, and love?  The chance to do something great through your art, at the expense of everything else.  Something about that just sings to me its siren song.  If only I could do both.  Live a life of love, truth, wonder and still be stable enough to not have everyone around me hate me for who I am.
   I guess that's the rant of the day.  Just me, bearing my soul open and injured on the proverbial stage.  Just please, be careful with my heart.  It's the only thing I want to keep intact.

Happy reading.

Asking All the Right Questions

Rain travels upward

   In the lower levels of eternity,

     Wanderlusting through field

After field,

         Never asking why,

Only to find the answer

     To our question

Is exactly why.

At the mountains of

   Stark raving madness

     The gods drink scotch

Looking at the stars,

         Wondering if there's

Someone up there, listening

     To their prayers,

This is exactly why.

Exactly why our eyes

   Can't keep away from the

     Skyward shadows;

Can't keep wondering what's

         Living beneath our feet.

Can't stop ourselves from

     Asking all the wrong

Questions as to why.

Why do stars cry out at

   Midnight? Why do dogs

    Bark through shocked

Collars. You're goddamn right

         Why:

Because someone up there

     Is asking

All the wrong questions.

Wondering where the next

   Step will take us

     Feeling like there's nowhere

To go but

         Everywhere.

Everywhere at once,

     Only stopping to ask.

Why?