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struggle

Uninspired Excuses

Been struggling. Distracted. Making up excuses as to why a book isn’t being read or why words aren’t being written. It’s all internal. Self-sabotage. Lack of discipline and control. All the goals posted up, followed by a lack of strive to reach any of them.

Sluggishly it all gets done… eventually. It’s always eventually. No restraints holding back. No blockages in the way. Just laid out excuses. If the effort put into coming up with reason as to ‘why not’ were directed into reasons ‘why to’, just imagine what could be done. Some factor, piece, of being human creates this slow stride. Self defeat is the only way. Deciding to do it without external…

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Strange Place

Jack loves the drugs. The drugs love Jack. But Romeo and Juliet don’t belong together.

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As if something is missing words echo existing madness. They’re always persisting. Lost self with bad habits. Identity ravaged by guilt which has managed to linger and damage the hopes meant to manage the goals I’ve established. The wind blows with a whisper. Crisp hands filled with blisters bleed black ink, sinister. Fear to blink for the monsters sing from the darkness. Ringing shrieks last the longest. Haunting freaks from the back of the mind, begging me to head for the shadows each time. Like felines ask to be pet and loved with hidden agendas to capture and mug. Iron bars, no free will. Screaming from inside of glass jars. Not a peep, air is still. To a crisis I speak, my intentions are weak, suicide is too bleak, but I shiver. Floor boards creak as the demons stalk me. I always escape. Is running my fate? Surviving is great, but what will it take to live? To choose what I give? To stand along with things I love and insist I’m not caught by the whiff of a flame? A rose by any other name. Why can’t I admire without sacrificing my brain? Am I…

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Sobriety

Jack writes about his journey in stopping marijuana use.

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I’ve been a pothead on and off since I was about 15 years old. Began with marijuana. Eventually landed on ecstasy. Even dabbled in psychedelics. The only one I kept returning to was marijuana. I easily let go of all the others. Returned to marijuana so often I’ve defined it as addictive behavior. And I put no blame on the cannabis itself for my constant return. I’m the one with the addictive tendencies after all. Theoretically, I could have gotten addicted to anything from alcohol to gambling or sex. It just so happen to be this because it was the first. It happen while I was the youngest.

I quit for many years. Since senior year in high school until the middle of my college years. When I got back to it I’d only use every couple of months. About a year in it was as frequent as every weekend. I felt creative using it and enjoyed the feeling. It gradually leaked into the rest of the week. Maybe something left over from the weekend would get used on Wednesday. It wasn’t long before anything left over was used the following Monday. As I got more used to doing it regularly it became such a part of the daily routine that I began looking forward to it. Eventually trying to stretch the same amount through the entire week. By this point I managed to get high each day micro-dosing. As my tolerance grew I was less affected and left wanting more each time. I began buying twice as much each week. That kept me stoned Sunday through Saturday. From then on it’s a tolerance building game.

And then I’m getting high to feel normal.

The days I don’t have it I feel anxious. Depressed. Desperate. Bored. I think the boredom is the worst part. It’s maddening. Whenever I try stopping, boredom turns me back around. It’s so easy to access marijuana and instantly make all things fun and exciting. The all natural boredom killer. For a low price have a blast. But I only think this is true. I don’t function sober because what I used to call sober is the state I’ve reached now while high. High when normal, normal when high. I’m paying to avoid boredom withdrawal. The cannabis does nothing but keep me stable. It’s the only way I…

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The Mythical Wall of Blocks

A tale of warriors on adventures and worries scared to venture.

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There isn’t always a clear path when staring at a journey. Excuses are unacceptable. Walls are no reason. Spilling the ink is the only truth. Yet, warm masks cry reason.
Without aim or direction an image forms itself. Narratives aren’t born, they’re crafted from struggles. Pointless clicks and scribbles grab hold of the ether and drag down the fantasies pleasantly floating about. Shapeless as they may be alone, collections get named. Ink formed into abstract ideas discussing themselves.
Meanwhile cosplay myths and tales of pens run dry strike fear into the hearts of warriors beginning their path. Religions designed to confuse. Fictions more crippling to the wanderer than the stories eager for design.
But the true explorers don’t fall victim. They travel, even with the fear deep…

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Relapse In Reverse

Poison filled syringe poised just a tinge
Boy still unhinged with the joy to binge
Sober hell, it’s all well stoner
Loner in a cell hidden to drown the noise
Pesky voice, broken record making choices
Fuckin’ heckler making jokes
Drowsy summer, stumble and fall ‘till October
Recall deployed smoke, an attack to destroy hope
Unable to react, moving too slow
Won’t go back…

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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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Lost The Keys

Honesty and sincerity are profound struggles we encounter from day to day.
In this piece Jack expresses his experiences with being upfront to himself.

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No phrases around to display the profound
Faces down in the dark places
From which I can’t get out
Empty pages, stuck again
Rage pint up, grab a pen
Ritalin the bad man
No answers, but don’t want to hang man
Doubt is cancer, plastered, back of the mind
A disaster, wasting the time, short lifespan
The taste? Wasted life
”But Captain, the scanner’s shot out!”
”We need a new plan of attack to get out!”
Cannonball the neanderthal
Enchant ‘em, get mannin’ at the control
I’ve been plannin’, call Ganon, start tearin’ down them walls
Raise his damn cortisol, stroke that ego
Bring out the evil, using the ink to mislead him
Don’t let him blink, don’t even let him wink
I want to see what he thinks
I want to read what he thinks
Pull up, last car in the caravan…

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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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Throwing Stones

Some of us struggle more than others in facing our demons.
Jack tells of how he faces his own.
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The Glass is foggy. House is half full. Can’t type ‘cause I’m a little groggy. Need it at night so I drool. Not sure whether lying or right. Caught in the pipe. Dream above the clouds. Asleep to escape the night. Bare and weak I see myself. Bleak, a life, hell, shrieks. Got health. Quite wealthy. Still can’t stand my fucking self
So I bury myself, before I die and just wait out the time. Fade out the lines
Color the pages. No one else can see. But, it is what it is. So it’ll be
Rainbows sparked in flames hope to erase the shame. No. They change only the same flow 

”Don’t fool yourself, foolish self. This hell is your prison cell.
Intoxicated, you ain’t well
This isn’t what you wanted is it?
You brought it. Miss it? Listen
You had it. Dissed it. Dip-ship
Put this outfit on. Cluck like a chicken ‘till you get whats going on
Take these feathers if they’re…

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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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Planning for Later

After finishing his 365 Project Jack is eager to see what comes next for him.

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Been restless for days. Fastened safe behind the door of the bunker. Clicking and ticking the word keys. Idea stacking. Format building. Adding shape and structure. Fleshing out the details of the future for the future. Doing it all drained from the won race.

Constructing new tools to face unmet targets. Swords for battle and sticks for stability.

Victory battles don’t predict ended wars. Ended wars still have the aftermath. Recovery is gradual behind the worn inkless pen. Winners decide the history.

A war of infinite battles has no finish. Each finale is but a stepping stone to the next risk.
It was all just chapter 1.

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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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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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Hypothesis

Most of our reason go unconsidered. We don’t stop to question ‘why?’ We come up with an answer and roll with it. When the only true answer can be discovered through search, not manufactured.

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For a second in space time, wrapping my spaced mind around disgraced slime
Faced with stress I hide my face, lies, and chase distracting mistakes, stand idle in place
Might faint, fried, just to cry under my face
The sound is too loud to shout it out of the crowd so drown it down
Won’t wait a few seconds after pulling the pin to toss the damn thing
Take cover and hope my ears don’t ring

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Those That Make

What you’ve done in the past will influence your future. More so if you’re a creator.

A thought on creativity.

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The ability to create is a muscle in the mind. If exercised there is no limit to the imaginative capacity it might contain.

All forms of creation affect the understanding of all other forms. They cross over. The same amount of improvement you gain from using your imagination in one area will show in the rest. The base tools are what get enhanced. Critical thinking. Problem solving.

The more varied your methods of creation are the more you have to offer in any one area. What you bring is the experience of what was made or attempted in other mediums. And with an elevated understanding of creation you’ll begin to see how what worked for that, with a little tweaking, can work for this.
Re-imagination is the strongest weapon a creator holds. Knowing what old tricks make new art.

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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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Loosen The Grip

The most difficult challenge a writer faces is learning to be less critical of themselves. To allow the work to stand on its own. Learning when to stop editing themselves and how to let go of the work when its time.

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Click, click, click… Typing away at the keyboard. Minutes morph into hours, then days, then weeks. Before too long, months have gone by. A hundred thousand words on a manuscript. The deadline for the first chapter is in a month. It’s time to edit that first chapter. And edit. And edit. And edit that first chapter.

Typing away at the keyboard. Minutes morph into hours, then days, then weeks. Before too long, a month has gone by. Ten thousand words edited to the fullest of my ability. All the little finalizations required get attention. That nervous shiver of whether or not something is going missed. Confidence is hard to have, but I know it has to be let...

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Poker Crown in School

Life is filled with ups and downs. Having the bravery and confidence to face all those moments equally will result in a fruitful future filled with learning and accomplishments.
Jack gives his thoughts in this poem.

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Patience is being tested
Straight aces on the table
Royal flush out of multiple choices
Pure crowned blood
Feeling able to take all the chips
4.0 mil stashed in the castle
Freshly dipped and gold plated
Playing the game is not a hassle
Cards in my hands
No class clown telling jokes to jesters now
Passing grade A performance
The brightest of Knights
Strokes of the lance questioned
Ready to fight once mentioned
Giving my…

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