The art of letting go?
I thought I had mastered it once.
Then I allowed this world
To soften me.
And now? 
Now I hold onto things that
May well not exist.

“I wish to weep,
But sorrow is
I wish to believe,
But belief is a

Hang onto that
Which we know…
Is nothing without chance.
And chance is but digging a hole,
To bury ourselves in.

The very death of me,
Will be my own hope.


Give me liberty
Or let my soul die

We as people
Are merely wild beings
Not meant to be bound

Untamed. Uncut. Beastly.
Overgrown. Lush. Earthly.
Not meant to be inhibited

These parts of us
Perfectly designed to remain uninhabited by other people
Bulldozing through our elaborate forests
Mass destruction to our essential nature
Telling us to be more simple
With every tree cut down
Telling us to thrive

Building corporate houses
On desolate surfaces
Which remain empty
Nothing left
To feed the greedy


To hinder my independence
Is to cage me
Provide me nothing to quench my thirst
And watch my spirit dry up

I promise you
It will happen ever-so-quickly

So do not be fooled
By my seemingly hard character
I am no breaker of chains
No, these chains would break me

And you

To repress my will
To place restraints on my intensity
Is to throw salt to a flame
And expect some form of clarity

Stare too long at your beloved good deed
Of torching this foundation
Your eyes will crisp and bleed

Every shot at bringing morale to morality
Throwing salt to the flame
Further diminishing your ability to see

You couldn’t succeed
In being grounded within me
You also could not stand to watch me fly

Give me liberty
You’d rather watch my soul die

Rather watch me burn
Grasp onto your final fading hope
That any part of me
Any part of me at all
Burns for you

Waiting game
Tighten your chains
Every strike of the axe will burn
But is it burning me?

Is it?


Do your chains burn?

Untreated Manpression Doe Not End Well

I said I wouldn’t write another
Until this shit was over
But this song has got me feeling a certain way and…
All I ever do is feel
Let’s be real
I couldn’t help myself
All this nazi rage
Nazi crawl back into your cave
With your sorry little nazi tears
Wound up, bound up
Are you feeling sorta fucked up
Because you could not displace your tiny nazi fear
On this big bad world
Nazi rage
Belong in a little padded nazi cage
I read your files
To the fucking ceiling they pile
Your mental health so vile
This insane cycle
And now that all of America hates you
Was it worthwhile?
And you blame people of color and…
You blame the liberals that supposedly don’t have jobs and…
You’re not really all that white either
If you would just stop being a coward and…
Admit your genealogy and…
You’ve been fighting a disability case since ‘73
Too unstable to find a job
Yet you find yourself backed by some sorry ass cops
So tell me,
How does a bat shit crazy nazi fund himself?
Building on and spreading and…
Profiting on this ideology?
Others like you, also so quick to pass
On dealing with these insecurities
Now you’re one big happy fucking family and…
The rest of the world will make sure you do not thrive and…
Some will ensure you do not survive
So I recommend taking your nazi rage
And crawling back into your little fucking nazi cave
Before this big bad world eats you alive

The Actual Hell Your Drunk Ass Just Write?

Day of failure ends in awaiting exhaustion.
Insomnia will cause my artistry.
Insomnia will cause my insanity.
Insomnia will be the death of me.

That’s just the uppers by day and downers by night, you idiot.

Blaring music through my headphones.
I hate that when I move my hands to type…
There’s friction through the wires.
And I can hear it.

Also brings to light the unintentional jaw popping
Popping. Popping. Popping.
All this enclosed popping,
Firing back at me.

A reminder of the control…
I am lacking.

Song on repeat.
“Leave me out with the waste,
This is not what I do.”
But it is.

And it’s not the song,
But the passion that fuels me.
Because I am lacking.
So, I analyze it.
The song.
Finding meaning where meaning
May not exist.

Perhaps my problem is
That I write with restriction.
Remembering the days it used to flow out of me.
Like a caged bird set free,
Making its way home.

But I am living the wrong life.
Escaping it is my conviction.
A prison sentence.

Too weak to break through these bars.
Too much pressure on myself.
Get drunk every night so I do not care.
I am sick of this life…
But I no longer have it in me to put up a fight.

I know that’s not alright with you.
Or you.
Or you.
But I beat myself up over sharing my own desperation.
I need not worry if you will, too.

Because honestly,
If you can’t love me in this moment…
Fuck you.

This is my backhanded way of saying thank you,
To those who love me. 

I possess a beautiful craft within me,
But instead I choose to bicker.
Too much pressure on myself
To deal with my own time-restrained failures.
So, I just drink beer.

My craft is artistry (sometimes).
My craft will cause my insanity.
My craft will be the death of me.

That’s just the uppers by day and downers by night, you idiot.

I hate my craft,
With every particle of my being.
But I must do it.

And I’m all out of beer…

And this jumbled form of expression
Will amount to nothing.
And tomorrow I will find myself,
Still living the wrong life.

Song on repeat.
“Leave me out with the waste,
This is not what I do.”
But it is.

This jaw popping is driving me nuts.