PassionFor the last few months I've felt like the beast which seems to occupy my brain was sleeping or gone or just bored with torturing me. I thought that for once I could finally express myself, in history or math or science. I even felt like at times some of what came out of my mouth, my mind was profound. Dad would say "Write that down" and I would, thinking that I could look back on it and feel this overwelming feeling of wisdom which seems to come so often with my mania.Mania, a word I love and hate and feel nothing for all at once. I should know by now that nothing in this illness is ever sure or true. Because even in these times of seeming togetherness I have violent outbursts and feelings of consuming nothingness which seem to go unnoticed by my parents and are conveniently forgotten by the time we decide to talk about my disease.Better, a word I thought could be applied to me. Because I sleep now, even if it is for long periods of time. The nightmares are gone, yet replaced by nau
Let's let.Let's commit a hypocrisy.Let's fuck the world together.Let's commit an atrocity.I refuse to believe that my fate lies in the hand of any other man besides me.Why should I?God. Maybe yes.But God is such an abstract idea like love that its hard to believe in either all the time.Let's die for today,and live tomorrow.Or let's live today,and die tomorrow.Either way, death's inevitable. So why fear it? Let's face it.Let's sing and dance,and fuck life by chance.Let's say that there are no chances,there is no luck, there is no fate,but only Man.And Man is destiny, and Man is chance,and Man is fate, and Man is luck.Let's not believe we are powerless.Let's just pretend, for your god's sake, let's just pretend that man exists.That man is a man and not a puppet.Let's just decide. Decide today. What is real and what is not?Is god? Is life? Is consciousness or dream reality?Let's cry, and let it all out, I say.Let's cry, and let it all out.To be or not to be,that never was
Just the CocaineJust the CocaineI used to believe it,when you'd saythat you loved me;now I realize it wasjust the cocaine talking.
Four years.I was nine when they left me, when my best friend became my father, when the cancer got bad and I had to learn how to cook and clean and tuck myself into bed at night.I was nine when my mother quit her job, and began spending every hour she had in the hospital, when my father began breaking promises and changing rules and getting lost on the highway because the hospital was the only place he knew.I was nine when I understood what it meant to grow up too quickly, when they pulled me out of my classroom to tell me she was dying, when I realized that losing my sister would end more lives than one.I was thirteen when they decided they could save her.I was thirteen when they took her apart, piece by piece, and put her back together again, whole.I was thirteen when they brought her home, breathing and smiling and laughing like little girls should, when her favorite color was green, when she talked so fast, when she wrote me stories and plays and songs, when she wanted to be an astronaut
Happiness: The Perfect TriggerI blew my brains out today.Well get back to that.Wednesday 6:02 A.M. I rolled over onto my back and stared at the ceiling, thinking about what it was going to say. Dont be silly. I was assuming it could talk. I remember what it told me decades ago. You know, youre getting old. Of course I knew. I was the one getting old! For example, when youre young, getting out of bed is one fluid motion. You dont like doing it, but all you do is kick and stand up. Thats it. When you get old, its four very unevenly spaced, unevenly paced and unevenly executed moves. Its all very complicated really.1. You roll over onto your back, stare at the ceiling and smash the alarm-clock. [pause]2. You roll over a little more and push yourself up with your one atrophied arm. [pause]3. You swing both your legs over the edge of the bed. [pause]4. You sigh, lean forward and use both your atrophied arms to
Lost FreedomThey say freedom is a beautiful word, a beautiful thing. When you dream without fear and live without oppression, all you need now is for your life to embrace it. Isn't it easy though, just to think the concept that dwells in the West and disintegrates in the East could be as powerful, as life-changing, as the word "love" itself?I beg to disagree, but then again, circumstances have dealt me a different hand.I'm not saying that humans don't deserve to be free. I hate any repression to freedom. Human trafficking, for instance, makes me sick to the bone at the cruelty that humans can be so capable of. Being denied freedom of speech silences the hopes of future generations and reveals the cowardice ingrained in human psyche. But freedom, like love, has many different facets to it.Freedom for me is the lightening of the soul, the inner peace within myself and with life, and the joy of knowing that burdens do not make me a shadow in the light. But for me, there is no freedom. There is onl
No MoreThe time has comeNo more pretendingI'm so sickOf wasting time defendingWho I amOn the insideThis yearI will not hideI know meI've found peaceAnd inner strengthCome so farTo find myselfI'm not your puppetOr your mimeI will be myselfAnd save some timeI'm not scaredOf who I amOr of youYou can laughAnd you can jokeBut you'll be sorryWhen I'm looked atAnd applaudSo here I amYou can't tell meHow to dressI'm kind of crazyI'll confessBut it's meNo more liesNo more