No Hurry

I write to drink, I drink to write.
It's a vicious cycle.
I haven't felt like drinking for the past four days, and I haven't felt like writing either.
I came home today not wanting to do anything, no TV, no music, no talking, or walking.
I get home from work and lay down on my bed for a couple of hours and just stare at my ceiling.
I don't feel depressed, I just don't feel anything.

I'm casually writing this as the thoughts slowly drip into my mind, I'm in no hurry, I'm the only one that reads my shit. I think I'm done with this, time to post.

An Ode to H. Charles B.

I want to drink, I want to drink til I can't feel my self.
I don't give a shit, do you?
Who knows, I don't think you do.
I'm not caring or knowing what road I'm on anymore.
Do you?
It's as if I'm racing towards my own demise.
Misunderstanding with hope or tears, moving forward.
What can I say?

How I Define Art (Pt. II)

Art is the personal interpretation of a thought, fantasy, or emotion. We create in hopes of understanding, and the possibility of acceptance. We know as we create it's intimate, and therefore, hopefully understood.

Judgement

Most people are so quick to judge, how the hell do we get to know anyone?

Confession

I haven't written much, if anything for the past fourteen years, I haven't felt much for maybe longer.
It wasn't until after my brother and his wife split, and he kept urging me to write again, that I did start writing again.

For me, writing is the expression of my emotions and thoughts, and I realized, I've been holding everything in, and writing again was like smashing a dam.
Everything came rushing out at once.
I became a mess.
I kept writing.

It's only been a month and a half and I'm sitting here with four notebooks and a bunch of random scraps of paper, and a black balled point pen.
I write a little here and there in each notebook, and still can't keep up, I've been holding everything in for fourteen plus years, and I missed writing.

Dad

It started out as a quiet day. I walked to the store, it was cold as usual.
I started to think about my Dad. I learned on Christmas day that he has Emphysema, it could get worse.
I haven't told the rest of my family yet, I don't want to tell them, I don't want it to be true. I've been told I'm the man of the family since I was nine (that's when my parents split).

I moved up here to get to know my Dad, we don't have much to anything in common, he loves sports, I love the fine arts, he loves cars, I'm just happy to have anything that gets me from point A to point B safely. My brother Jim says that I should just move back down to California, I want too, but I need to be here right now. He doesn't know, and is understandably getting impatient with me.

My Dad fell off the face of the planet for almost 20 years, I honestly thought he was dead. He didn't make contact with my sister or I for that period of time, but still he's my Dad and I gotta to be here for him.
His Dad wasn't there for him and my granfather's Dad wasn't there for him either, it's my responsibility to break the cycle.

I love my Dad, I just wish, I could understand him better.

How I Define Art (Pt. I)

Art is the free expression of ideas, thoughts, and dreams. You don't know where it's going to lead you til you're done.

Decades, Drifting (4/13/94)

I don't want to be a liar, I don't want to be silently dismal.
I don't want to trust someone.
I don't want you to know this.

I can't stay away from turmoil and it's fascinating ways, just ever taunting me to show my chaotic self.
I can't, and won't let it be, left twisted.
I wake in the morning, I'm breathing, so I guess I'm still alive.

Answers in front of me, questions behind me, decades drifting, lingering.

Why can't we sleep forever.
Why can't we drink forever.
I want, I can't.
I went for it, to give my heart.
I can do this.
I will do this.

Happy Poem

Puppy dogs, and kitty cats. Bubblegum, and pigtales. I'm trying.

Grace

i can't stand myself, i can't stand you... where do we stand? you hate me, and yourself more. i get blamed, and you walk away. I'm the basterd, you're the victim. i'm alone, and you've got family, i'm the liar, you're the saint. i should just my shut mouth or you'll call the cops and make up a story. i get depressed, i get fat. I loose my friends and family, i want to die. you brake up with me cause i loose my job, i supported you for two years. i'm heartbroken, i go away. three months later i get a call from your mom and she blames me for everything. i'm crushed... so, fuck you.

Broken

I'm broken, I give up.
I'll keep to myself, and leave everyone alone.
I'm not intrested in being the pathetic guy.
Don't feel sorry for me, I'm walking away.

Thank you

The Oceans of Time (4/18/94)

Flowing oceans of time, blending into reality's mind.
Secrets forever, stories untold, language's unknown.
Mystic feelings, all around and intense.

Somber and rested, stealing in rhythm.
Quick reactions, immortal, but still new.
Decades alone, in the oceans of time.
Aging friends, forever with hope.

Forever, and on, and on, and on.
Suppressing fun, and paying with your fears.
It can't be changed, it can't be forgotten.
It can be tricked, and can be told.

It wasn't a beginning, it wasn't an end.
It can be yours, for a time.