face the music

shove the rubber in my ears
turn it up so loud they bleed
because id rather have blood fall from my ears
than face the music and confront my fears
i need a shock to my system
a release from reality
a rhythmic fantasy to drown my insanity
to survive the lie im living
to revive the life im killing
empty words echo in my head
while i lie in bed and run away
for hours on end the music plays
im meditating levitating
flying
the gravity of reality pulls me back to earth
dying
im done trying
i just dont want to be reminded
of what i've already decided to evade
now the song's begun to fade
and i have to make that choice between
pressing play again
or saying amen and finishing the prayer
that has been blaring in my ears
the ringing in my head feels so good
blood on the earbuds
runs down my neck like i knew it would
id rather bleed from the side
and be deaf in my ears
than expose my front and be ostracized
because its easier to put it on and lead you on
like a coat out the door before you go
and thats cheating i know
but maybe if i play it loud enough
the pain will never show

late night scribbles

sometimes i can spent the entire day
trying to figure out what i'm trying to say
but at night
when the moon is in sight
when the still air is just right
when i sit at my desk lit only by candle light
everything inexplicably comes together
the pen becomes one with the paper
then my mind takes flight
and i start to write

Liquid Absolution

I heard that most people come here because the drinks were good and the prices deceptively cheap. No surprise that the place was almost always full.

My eyes fell on a young man to my left, a well-groomed, respectable-looking guy. But the slouch in his shoulders said something else about his appearance that his $80 jeans failed to mention. I watched him take the first gulp; dark liquid quickly sliding down his throat. It didn't take long for the drink to take effect.

At first he held her close, bringing her to his lips often like the glass he now clutched. The burn in his throat felt good; the tingle in his stomach rippled through his body every time she said his name and held him close. As the froth settled near the middle of the glass, his senses began to dull and the room began to spin. A warmness filled his chest and he closed his eyes, her face tattooed on the inside of his eyelids.

He tilted his head back and drained the remaining contents of the glass, holding out for every last drop. She still said his name often, but it didn't give him butterflies anymore. There was a bite in her voice that wasn't there before and the bitter after-taste of her words lingered longer than he cared to admit. The buzz was wearing off and pain began to return to his body as his nerves began to feel again. With a heavy hand he clunked the empty glass down on the table and reached for the next set of butterflies.

His expensive suit, silk tie, and shiny shoes looked out of place in this dingy public house. He sat down, neatly arranged the drinks in from of him and began in earnest.

The first glass brought diplomas, scholarships, internships. The first tastes of the real deal, the real world. The second was the interview and the job. The burn was good. This is what he wanted. The third took a bit more effort--sleepless nights, 18-hour days, endless cups of coffee, slaving away weeks and months--but he did it. The fourths, fifths, sixths brought promotions, the big desk with his name on it in the corner office with the view, the big paycheck. He was on a roll and he wasn't about to stop--gulp, gulp, gulp. But now that he was all tingly he couldn't see straight, now he couldn't remember his address, now he couldn't tell his kids apart, now he couldn't enjoy being at home anymore. Everything hinged on the next big sale, the next big push, the next big gulp. He soon spent far more time on business trips with corporate bigwigs or in the office having his numerous assistants running errands for him than in his own home. Okay maybe spending so much time with Stacey the Secretary wasn't the best idea, but it was part of the job right? His wife would never know; no harm, no foul. The kids had their toys, she had her luxury cars, they had their house in the hills; yet his wife was ready to leave him. Why? Why couldn't she see that he was still providing for the family and working hard as hell so she could have it easy?

His smartphone buzzed twice. It was already late; dinner at home would be beyond cold and she was already upset. But he could grab a bite on the way back to the office; one more dinner missed wouldn't be the end of the world. Plus, the quarterly report needed to be finished and these glasses weren't going to drink themselves.

Her clothes hung loosely from her thin frame and the mess of tangled hair covered eyes that no longer wished to be seen. She sat in silence clutching the handle of the mug in front of her. Her charred throat silently protested but her trembling hand soon won out and she threw back her drink.

High heels, designer clothes, hours of hair and makeup walked onto the stage to the roar of the fans and the endless clicking of cameras. She flashed the smile, lifted the award and thanked the fans again for their endless love and support. "I don't know where I'd be without you guys!" She lied. More screaming as she made her way off the stage.

When the lights went out and the cameras were off and the fans nowhere to be found, the sunken eyes, the heavy heart, and the empty glass remained. Fans or no fans, she knew where she would be--right here. Alone in a bar, a hand on the handle she never had. But the fans want more. And so did she.

Okay--not entirely sure how he even got in here. He couldn't have been older than fifteen: beanie, checkered Vans, energy drink in hand. He plopped his backpack on the floor and swapped his Monster for a glass of the dark stuff. Glancing around the room for prying eyes, he lifted the glass.

His eyes were now the ones doing the prying as his fingers began to type and the forbidden images began to flash before his eyes. His heart thuds heavily within his chest and his hands are sweaty as he tips the glass back further. The excitement of the burn is there but it is empty and pointless, a fire with much fuel but no warmth. But he continues to gulp down the swirling darkness at his fingertips. His head is spinning as he reaches the last drop. The glass hits the table, he gathers his things and stumbles out without paying. Maybe he'll pay later. Who knows--who cares.

"The usual?" The bartender finally got my attention.

"Umm, yeah. Yeah."

He slid the drink across the counter and I caught it with an unsure hand. Why I hesitated now, I... I don't know. The cold glass on my lips soon produced the familiar burn in my chest and the visions began to pass before my eyes. With a tinge of regret, I quickly threw my head back and downed the rest of my drink before I could change my mind.

"There's a smell of stale fear that is reeking from our skins
the drinking never stops 
because the drinks absolve our sins"
- The Bravery
"Believe"

not enough

Sometimes I worry that I do too much talking and not enough doing,

And then I realize I don't do very much of either.

empty seats

I still remember the first time I sat in this seat.

I was alone, kinda scared, a bit anxious. I didn't know where I was going. I thought I was going to ride alone but it was full of people--people I didn't know. So I was still alone.

Every stop people arrive and people depart. But the longer I stayed, the more the bodies filling the seats became faces I could recognize. Bodies continued to file in and walk out at every stop, but there were always a few that stayed. These few became more than familiar faces; these few I sat with and ate with; these few shared the same blue skies and dark tunnels of the ride with me. These few I'd seen the highs and lows with, I'd seen the world with these few.

At every stop, a few of the few would get up out of their seats, walk out of the open doors, and disappear into the throng on the platform. As they walked out, more walked in. More empty seats brought more empty bodies to fill them. But not every seat was filled. Some would inevitably be filled later, but some seats will always remain empty.

The doors slid shut again and we started moving again. The last stop was a big one; quite a few departed for the last time. I looked around to see who was still here. The number of empty seats continues to grow. I'm almost at my destination and number of passengers whose faces I still know is dwindling.

But the rare few who have the same ticket I do, the ones who have the same departure, the same destination; the ones who have remained from the beginning of my time to the end of line--those are the ones who have made the ride worthwhile.

When it's my turn to walk out of those doors into the swirling crowd of unknowns, I'll still have my little piece of paper as proof of my crossing over.
But destination is only half the story.