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life

Immortalized

Thinking about mortality and the love of creating.

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Often conflicted and quite difficult to please, a complicated pursuit to remain busy and create overtakes. It’s aimless, but fueled by the imagination of a mind never silent. Thoughts without sleep. A perpetual anxiety holds on the brink of psychological collapse. Everlasting depression lingers in the background with awareness of mortality and the shortness of time. All the things wanted but only few will unfold before the red curtain drops, the lights shut off and the stage plunges to darkness. Countless tail-chases to the priceless and of meaning. Naming it purpose. Hoping it doesn’t come across as…

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Surface Tension

Linguistic synergy
Sick insistent energy
Restrictive mentally

Bubbling up the worthless
Going berserk in
Priceless with work in
It’s working
Goes from broken
To whole thing

Began joking
Got hoping
It came with fear
Wax could melt if too near
Cowards slack
Take one step back
Things go undealt
Peek over shoulders
Gripping pistols pinned to belts
Speak scared, “its over”
Won’t lose this…

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I'm No More

Sometimes we feel ignored but it’s just in our heads.
Sometimes we are ignored and they follow up with regret.
Sometimes we don’t speak and the words moves on.

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Gab inaudible crap. Stuttered puffs of smoke on which to choke. Of words, broke. Get stoked with hope someone will know, yet the roll is slowed. Snake eyes gaze the two step, phased.
Said to be cold. The safety blanked is much too old. Need a cane to be able to remain stable ‘cause it can’t quit kicking the jock. He’s tossed the ball on this side of the court but good judgement is not on the table.

On all fours, the dumb whore lets anything lay on top. She wants more. The mind is a fucking slut.
That’s when they slip in. Sliding and scheming. Coming to conclusions.
Until he’s hot headed, they’re not ready to stand steady, instead they plot dreading the rain when it’s heavy. The pour down hill. A flood rips still towers right from their solid iron. The red pill goes silent.
Systems fail. He gets violent. I’m not trying to fight him.
Let him out.
Let him shout.
Let him tire.

And the mouth runs dry with lifeless twisted chimes. Echoes from past times. Like hellish bells ringing well past the due date.
A new take on the birth of the problem child. Fighting, struggling, dying out. On bottom.
The words mean nothing. The pleas heard hardly.
They herd hard. Strong leads.
Like fucking animals. Picking at the random battles. Cattle cooped waiting for supper.
Duped. Trapped in giant coops.
But when questions aimed at truth show proof they’ve got no clue the volume lowers.
And he fades out.
Soup. Drowning in heat. Screams shatter defeat.
Loops causing retreat. Deep settled and bleak.
He stays there.
Speaking to the wind. Creeping, shrieking, blending in.
The words spoken are all broken. So he holds them.
Gives them back to that slut waiting on her back.
To get fucked with another problem. She’s bad luck. She loves to solve them. Jigsaw.
The jigs up. The chick is rough. Dangerous. Gives no fucks.
Tangled together. Alone forever. They’re one.
For the worse or the better.
Extroverted indoors.
Behind the locks.
Inside the box.
I’m no more.

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Barely A Man

Reflection is a difficult thing for people to accomplish.
Defeating our self denial is a great challenge for most.

Jack rants about adulthood, being a man, age, maturity and more.

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I’m no man. Barely a grown child. Immature. Unaware of what I want from life. Not even sure what life really is. Confused on a regular basis, hoping to one day know, perhaps understand, why I feel the way I do about the things I do.

I won’t hold my breath.

Been wondering if I’m doing life right. Am I successful? Am I accomplished? Could I be doing more? Should I just because I could? But why? To what end?

Might consider wearing a suit and tie to jump around like a monkey for money. That might make me a man.

I own a successful ever growing business. I’m my own boss. Make enough money to throw half of it away into meaningless garbage and still have bills paid, but boy do I love video games and dodging responsibility.

Understanding and thought out, but cold and unconcerned. Am I disqualified?

I’m probably republican on paper. Guess that’s it? That makes me a mature adult?

Can’t be a man. Don’t even know what a man is. No more than a 27 year old kid.

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Irritating Thoughts

 Self explanatory.

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I’m scared. Terrified.
That’s why I write.
That’s why I get intoxicated.
That’s why I philosophize.
And yet… I have not the slightest clue what I’m afraid of.
I can’t share my thoughts or heart properly. The message always gets across accurately. Never whole.
Life always feels incomplete.
The fun times end too soon. The bad times last too long.
This reality is dull. It’s boring.
Helplessness. As I get older the world appears crazier. I’m left questioning whether the madness increases or my awareness of it does.
My life summarized is Mildly Anxious.
The ups and downs are there. Always present. They’re unpredictability is nauseating.
The best is made of whatever comes.
I’m constantly realizing how little I know of the world.
And that’s just what I’m aware I know little of.
There are things I don’t consider exist. Things I wouldn’t think up in a million years.
Like all my beliefs, given to me. Heard them and followed whichever I agreed with.
I’ve never confirmed any to be accurate or true. Wouldn’t even know how I would do that..
It’s quite possible I don’t understand anyone and no one understands me.
I’m scared to die. But only when I think about it. And only some of the times that I think about it.
Don’t know if I’m succeeding at life or not.
Life sort of… Takes me.
To wherever I am. I don’t know.
From wherever I came. I don’t know.
To wherever I’m going. I don’t know.
I’m happy from time to time.
Miserable from time to time.
Not sure why the things that cause either do.
I’m not even sure what the point of writing this is.
But I am. I guess this is how I “succeed” at life.
I think that’s the goal.
Not sure.

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Slow Sure

It’s important to do the things that give your life purpose.
The rest should take second place importance.
Jack does just that in this poem as he explains why he’s not rapping, yet.

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Willing to spit
But saliva ain’t worth shit
Still alive, I won’t stand, sit
Wasted time get a man hit
Rep Demi, sitting back
Let me crate those thoughts
For the war gods
The pen, a whore
There’s no note not written for
Except of course
One’s behind locked doors
But set a course using force
Upset the order
Rewrite the border
Word hoarder
Obsessed with disordered
Detested ‘cause I murder words
No regrets
Yes, that’s what you heard

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Walkin' the Walk

Fight to overcome and let no one hold you back.
A lesson Jack has learned the hard way over the years.

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I won’t be chained to the tame
Too animal to restrain
Cannibal plottin’ on the next game
Bad like Hannibal
Tiny little bit insane
Just enough to take risks and go nuts
Givin’ no fucks
Givin’ no hugs
Breakin’ road blocks
Get the fuck out my way
If the road’s wrong repave it
Rename it, treat it like it’s one way and take it
And I’m gettin’ hungry
The plate looks clear
As I get more desperate the fear disappears
Yet, takin’ too long to make waves
But earthquakes make great shakes
Don’t Mistake it
All the flavors when heated up taste great
Don’t they?
If it needs to be broken I’m fuckin’ breakin’ it
I’m not jokin’ you 2s are chokin’, fakin’ it
Like…

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Hiding Time

Self-reflective, Jack discusses his fears and motivations for being creative. Leaving a mark.

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I wear a mask to go hard
And I take the lie pretty far
Fake like I’m born with these scars
I don’t bruise, I’m from mars
Way high up in the stars
With red eyes locked like darts
Just ’cause I’m smarter when I gab
That’s why I overstand to rap and spit
Can barely stand hands frosty grip
Around my throat
The grip won’t slip
Hope I don’t choke
I’m rolling throwing blame at frozen shame
Stone cells, prison brain
Shattered the glass house
The crash was mad loud
I’m assed out
No second chance will pass down
Claim sober to be left alone
It’s over
Getting closer for…

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Blind Allegiance

Jack updates us on his current political standing.

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The long line grows. Followers chosen by God herself. To enslave the children. To fight the dark forces. Hostages for a better world. When white robed phantoms spread their word from beyond the grave.
And they begin. “Where is my…” with air quotes, “Money?”

Revive the fallen. Destroying and eradicating the dark forces. Blue suited shiny badges of honor with guns pressed against the backs of the perceived enemy. A strike by the rebellion unable to regain the dwindled numbers of the “home team” reaching to even the odds by reducing the “away.”

Shackles and iron bars for the shades not aligned with the morally gray stars on the flag. Red bloods of white skin on the blue ball owned by green presidents.

Trumpets play as the blue birds chirp overhead. The distraction for those chewing gum silent masturbating to gun violence.

Oh dear, how the toppling towers teeter. No use crying over spilled oil. The dividers keep the…

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Desperate Thinking

Many of the major struggles we deal with as adults are internal. And they surround the perpetual identity crisis the “adult experience” turns out to be. Some of our worst demons reveal themselves to be a major part of our identity.

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In the back of my mind the grind stays in line
Shows up on time
Thick sludge slime drips off ass it goes by
Slow drive
No life, it chases faceless cries
Whines stalking hated ties through crooked lies
It takes or it dries
Created illusions for desperate tries
Feeling asleep still hoping to die
Never real, but always alive
Never bad, but always a crime
Chiming the rhymes of evil
Slides off the tongue perceiving
Fires burn the homes
Screeching iron melting down
Reaching into hollow grounds
Spinning, churning, twisting round
Molten lava leaking out
The creaking shack is splintered, brown
No sneaking in without a sound
The bleak still ring it sings resound
Trapped inside with screams and shouts
Rotted corpses stand about
Mules and horses on propaganda routs
Burnt alive behind the eyes
To all the rest I stand here fine

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Perspective Death

Death to a Perspectivist can take many forms. This is what it looks like for Jack.

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Many mourn with tears upon death, focusing on the absence of the individual life-force.

I consider death no more than the end of a book I’m part of. They’ve moved out of this three dimensional plain and are off to bigger and better things elsewhere in transcendent reality. In seeing it this way I forget about the absence. It’s like a friend moving away too far to communicate with in any feasible way. They’re just somewhere I can’t reach is all. Thus I remember the good times spent with the individual. It’s all there is left to do. The tears won’t bring anyone back or fix any personal problems I might be having. But I can enjoy what was and consider the death a completion of a unique book. I get to revisit the pages as often as I’d like.

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And Then Some

Fight through. What’s on the other side is worth the isolation, focus and hard work.
You have to live for your own goals.

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Tic, tick, toc, tock
The gray, oh how grey it is
Peaking while peeking
Was told what the toll was
Armed up I’ve got them with their arms up
Cuz, you’re your cause ‘cause you the jerk always jerking off
Duck the low flying duck
Get blown by some bitch seeking blow
One with a red bow in her hair, she bowed arrow in hand bow in the other
Bearer of hearts barer apart than together
Plan a route to the root of the problem
But banned the band from coming
Weigh what matters and take the rest out of the way
Wonder why’d the wide issue fade

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The Designer

The mind of a creator is a place where magic and tragedies are one and the same.
Whatever happens happens when they take their work seriously.
And the one’s that don’t get left behind.

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Much on the plate to eat. This and that. The want to eat it all while faced with the impossibility. Could take a bite of each thing just to get a taste, but not one thing would get finished.

Building glass towers…

Running out. The bomb is ticking and there is not time to sit and think of how to stop it. It’s time to act and make a move. To feel like something was attempted. So that if the bomb goes off it feels like at least the best was tried tried. In case one thing doesn’t defuse the it, it should all be considered. Lives are at risk and being helpless is not an option.

Sculpting away at the block…

This doesn’t belong here. Being capable of correcting this error makes it a duty. The weight of when it’s right or wrong to make a move is overwhelming. What if it’s the wrong call? What if the decisions have the capacity to…

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Aimless

The easy way out shortens our sight and understanding. Rationalizations against methods meant to discipline only prevent learning.

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Lost while handing directions

Claiming knowledge of the swiftest shortcuts

The path with the least resistance

Here is what is needed

Here is what is not

All these innovative designs to ease the journey never taken

These wastes of time are how getting lost began in the first place

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Why?

Feeling closed inside but unable to stop the strive.
This lyrical poem shows Jack’s fight and what he might do given the try.

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Do I feel weak?

Is it I refuse to speak of how my thoughts are bleak
Shriek inside, seek relief, heart dry dead mounted on a cross, I’m so fucking lost
But I refuse to think ‘cause I’ll sink into a slump and shrink
Lumps stuck in my throat, I’ll begin to choke, start feeling cold
Reckless and out of control but I won’t let go ‘cause there’s no telling where this car’ll go
It’s nowhere any of us would want to know
Obsessed with little regrets, don’t believe in hope
Lie to myself, “I’m the best,” “Not a mess,” “I can do this, though.”
Infest my mind with screaming voices testing me
Deafening noises
Definite poison
Stay poised when the moment is pointing three fingers back as I fade to black
In the middle of a heart attack that…

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Spit Wit Like a Trickflip

In this piece Jack is talking smack as thought this blog were a rap.

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The mind of a maker
Keeping up a grind ‘till I take it
Trickflip the shit quick with the sick wit
Acrobatic causing havoc when I’m at it ‘cause I’ve had it
Hot when I rock steaming glass shatters not
I’m a dick all outta shits
Won’t pull out
Clean staying mean, butt won’t cool down
Been around tried a couple of different sounds
Hearing the bitch screaming “don’t stop now”
That’s the voice in the background
Extra, Extra, Extra, going mad now
And I won’t back down
And I won’t stand down
And I won’t blackout
And I won’t quite shout
I slither when I whispers sneaking
Measure with whiskers fiending
Cat and mouse
You stumbled into the wrong house
No way out now
The claws behind these paws will cause a loss
Time and cost developed the sight which caught the tiny critters behind my bars
Inside my mirror I…

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One Ounce

...Wifey’s birthday. Can’t forget to turn up

Mollies, like real adults

Get paid. Five baby daddies

Drive up to welfare in a shiny Benz

At work all day. The mean streets

The crew runs too deep for fear

“We’re men,” we say

Go hard for the homies. Stay hard for the homies. But no homo

Own name tattoo across chest. Thug credentials

Or Identification In-Case-Of-Shit

Long white Ts, Like a Ghost...

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A Sure Afterlife

We don't often consider death and how it fits into the bigger experience we call Existence. 

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Death is an eerie thing. It’s quiet and gloomy. Dark in how it vibes.

The most solitary and lonely experience of someone’s life.

I didn’t mess up in using the word life, by the way. I believe death is a part of life. Not the end of it, rather, just some other stage in a transition...

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