Friday, April 8, 2011

Fuck Writing

I can't honestly remember the last time I wanted to type up anything going in my life on these blank boxes, not even things floating around in my head which exist of nothing more than pure imagination or memory, but tonight I had, what some may compare to "fucking insane" happened, and I feel it's my duty to humanity to share it.

I sat in a room with a woman I've known all of a month and a man who I was introduced to and told his name, spoke nothing with him and only with her went on and on about how she needs to take time for herself and forget all the loser assholes in her life. Well, I was the one wanting to make it known that a rule must be in place stating "Fuck off, all selfish, depraved wannabe gentlemen", and that, if only capable in mere voice she should proclaim such a thing. Anyhow, this fucking guy asks me out into another room then lays down what he's after. "I'm tryin' to tag that in there tonight" he says, then he begins laying groundwork on how I'm able to take advantage of his loin's needs, with reckless abandon for her needs or desires, by leaving with a handful of very good pot.

I stood there amazed and stunned far from words or expression for roughly four seconds, then said that it wouldn't be right, but that I didn't mind leaving but that I think she may deserve better than to be used and traded for weed and another man's time away. He shook my hand and sat across from me a few moments later back in the room, she was out of it and we're within a few feet as I explain to him furthur what I mean by these things I had to say about a woman I barely know. He began telling me "I beleave god must have sent you here just to talk to me tonight, maybe he did. I didn't look at it like you said it just now, but I still wanna hold her tonight..." and so on.

The word "god" floating in the context of his explaination of our meeting, through the selfish bullshit I could see him struggle with in his eye contact when he spoke of wanting her sexually, it was enough to make me sick. I decided to leave. I sit here now, a train splitting the night in two just outside my window while a text message arrives. "We will talk tom. Please." is all it says, and I feel the stern extra fingerpress it took to type that last period before she hit SEND, but I smile at the sickening funny reaction I get to the thoughts of "Who the fuck is Tom?" and why the fuck, if there's that last punctual and purposeful press of the period key, is there not time to type out the word "Tomorrow"?

I began thinking about one of the major reasons why I've given this writing thing up, and that reason is because life is damned predictable, boring, not meant for creatures capable of such fucking disgusting actions, and I'm not so fucking certain that I want to share anything with any of you.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Dust The Spotlight

It all seems like an act
When you come off defensive
Testing me to see where I'll give,
where I'll take, searching for an agenda

It all seems like an act
When I lie down next to you
I say it's no problem for me, I'm mature,
but I lay there with guilt and attraction
fighting amidst thoughts of you holding my
hand while giving birth to my child or standing
with baseball bat in hand next to your husband,
wishing me no mercy for simply being human

It all seems like an act
When you tell me of your love
Explaining the ins and outs of your
time here and how you use those terrible
moments, the worst, how you turn them into
something positive or leave them behind

It all seems like an act
With no curtain pulled
The shades down tightly in mid-morning
No sunlight, just silhouettes dancing slowly
Holding onto you, your heartbeat speeding under my arm,
faster and faster until we're both so caught up we let out laughs,
and I match my breathing to yours, slow but shallow, and I'm fine