Dwelling in blackness
An angel answers his prayers of apocalypse
Clarity in reason
Horrified at thoughts of betrayal and vanquishment
Endless he abuses her with pretense trivia
Failed self disintegration to champion the former
Missing the beginning, she creates and end
Rejection is his beacon into torment
Hopeless to restore blurred visions of perfection
Nightmarish existence through dreams of the psat
Anhedonia

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Tears swim down a sagging face behind a mask of smiles
best friends shake hands
equipped with knives so eager

Kings and queens all turn their heads and blend in with the crowd
while our heavy, noxious, synthetic sky falls down, and dances through our lungs
relapse unto savagery
digging the graves of fruition as well as ourselves

Sunshine without worry
the natural majesty of one great sphere
Arrested by need for the unnecessary
careless to take and weary to defend
destroyed
This is my sanctuary


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Strewn about hot sand
Soaking up future demise
Blue bleeds forever

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Falling from it's cone prison with glee
My delicious frozen treat left me
Sad, poor, and too far from the truck
Nothing to say except for this sucks
As it fell from it's prison of cone with glee


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Dirty street, even philthier gutters
Our deformed bottle flies through the air, it's landing welcomed by scraping asphalt
Hopes rise
Near miss, a sigh
Discouraged
Fraud meets victory
And for one graceful moment we were more than friends
We were
Ourselves

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Surreptitious is
a succesful plunderer
Parrots be true foes

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Should i bring comparison between you and the satisfaction of being trampled by an elephant?
You're less interesting and looking at you is more painful.
It's not very windy outside and the weather sucks this May.
And summer's taking too long to end, it's ridiculous.
Lately i can't really see the sun,
And when i do, it's more of a mustardish color;
And don't worry, even beautiful women have their off days,
Whether they forgot their makeup or just woke-up late;
But you always look bad,
You always will
And don't worry, when you finally die, people will still know how awful you are,
Because i plan on publishing this sonnet EVERYWHERE
Which as long as people can kick eachother in the FACE, or eat,
they will know of your meaningless existence and yeast infection
This will be better than a cat pushing a watermelon out of a lake.


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Someone once asked me why people do so wrong in this world
So then I took all the money from my pocket, and gave it to a beggar
Overly excited and with way too much praise they cheered at me with thanks
I frowned at the thought of not having any money left for my own delight
I then raised the handgun I kept at my side, shot the beggar, turned to the now horrified stranger, and politely gave him my inquiry
To answer your question sir, I guess evil is simply a more colorful, less expensive alternative

(This is a piece inspired by Stephen Crane. He claimed not to write poetry, but to write "lines".

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"I'm sorry. Firstly I'd like to point out how cliche I feel for writing a note, for such a terrible scenario sickens me. I honestly just couldn't think of another way to get my final thoughts out, but don't worry, I'll keep it brief. My real reasoning is that I'm simply no good. In my seventeen years on this planet I've accomplished next to nothing, and have only caused grievance to myself and everyone around me. I'm jobless, talentless, forsaken, and heartbroken. I regret almost everything I've done, and I apologize for all the pain I've caused. I'll not go into details; there's simply too much, and I don't want to get you down even more. My only request is not to blame anyone but me. I would like ownership of every action I've taken. Like I said, I'm nothing, and I simply see no reason to continue such a negative life. In my mind, my thoughts are scattered, and jump everywhere. I'm exploding on the inside, going crazy, and I just cant take it anymore. I guess the real point of this letter is just to remind you that everyone will be better off, and that I'm very sorry for the damage I've caused. I tried to prove that i could be a better person, but again, I let you all down.

-Sincerely, James"

A young man sat looming over an ornate looking mahogany desk, which was plain aside from a digital clock reading 8:12 pm, a piece of plain lined paper, and a pair of resting hands. A dark blue pen, stamped with the Bic logo rolls from its wielders clutch. Eyes focused on what he'd just written, James wears a blank look on his face.

"This doesn't come close to how i feel."
He signed.

"It doesn't matter,"
he spoke softly.

"All that matters is that everything will be okay now. I'll be out of here and my head will finally be clear, the suffering will end, and I'll be free."

James gave a halfway smile, then lifted the letter which contained his final words to the world. He then opened the top center drawer of the desk, and pulled out a black tool box labeled Freedom. He folded the note in half, and slid it into the envelope, then carefully placed it in the center of the desk, to make it visible. Again he reached into the box, this time revealing a very tantalizing object. A finely polished, smoothly detailed gun. Black leather tread hugged the handle, with a rose inscribed into it. He gripped the gun with his right hand, and eased the barrel into position against his temple. In that instant, his thoughts began to race menacingly, his eyes rested calmly, and off into his past he drifted. Visions of childhood flared up into his mind, Christmases, colorful classrooms, long afternoons with playmates. His parents' divorce. Violently he streamed into his adolescence. His first kiss, health issues, puberty, fighting with his parents, nights out with groups of friends.

James' index finger weighed heavily on the trigger, and the sounding of its click determined his fate. Black powder rushed from the barrel, followed by a hellish lead harbinger. The bullet shattered through his skull and raced toward his brain. His final thoughts escaped his mind as he recalled recent events. Losing the love of his life, withdrawal, seeing all the evil in humanity, giving up on life, buying a gun, trying to contact her one last time, and upon failure, giving up.

Impact. The bullet slowed slightly as it enters his brain, and crashed through to the other side of his skull, sending pieces flying outward from the exit, followed by a thick burst of blood, mixed with sections of brain and tissue. His body relaxed, his hand opened, and the note explaining the entire tragedy drifted to the floor, not making a sound as it landed. The dented, hot shell of the bullet clanged on the ground, and rolled in a semicircle, followed by the loud thumping of his body hitting the floor. His face was still blank, and his problems were all gone. The clock on his desk ticked silently, and read 8:13 PM.



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In the tall savannah grass, in the shade of giant trees overlooking the edge of the jungle, rest a pack of saber-toothed tiger. The vivid blue reflection of the lake show one of the beasts, their leader actually. Two fangs, ivory in color and almost a foot in length, dominated the image. A brownish fur designed to hide the creature in the floor of the jungle, or in the vast plains of the savannah, covered his body. He took his drink and circled the pack, finally coming to a rest in the back.

Still in action, however, was a group of men, lurking silently nearby. Their appearance was all but modern. Some wore crude hide-tunics, stained with blood and everything else you’d expect from a hunter, others wore nothing. Weapons, that were just about as makeshift as it gets, were carried in great supply. Small handles wrapped in roots or whatever scraps of hide hadn’t been used for clothing, and finished with stone tips that resembled that of a hatchet clutched tightly, or kept somewhere on the body. Even smaller were the crude knives of stone worn on wrists, ankles, anywhere they could fit. Men lurking in the trees held long spears, also finished with stone tips.

The largest man of the group stopped, and signaled the group to be still, pointing ahead. Letting out a large grunt, then a yell, the man rushed towards the pack of tiger, the others followed shortly. This was no hunt. Outnumbering the beasts when they were at rest, this was slaughter. The leader of the tigers got as low as possible and made his way stealthily towards the large man. The tiger struck, leaping with absolute ferocity, and knocked the man off his feet. Reacting without hesitation, the man swung his axe, and nearly decapitated the animal. Struggling to get away, all but 1 of the pack had been slain. The remaining was none other than the kin of the leader. Bolting around men, he made his way to his father, tackling the man as he jumped to his feet. Tearing into his flesh with his teeth, finishing him with a deadly blow to the head, he rushed to his father’s side, but it was too late.

Through the jungle he dragged his father in a bed of leaves. A whisper could be heard throughout: “Poor soul, he was the last of his kind.”





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