Uninspired Excuses

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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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Dying Philosophy

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Over the last couple of decades the concept of philosophy has been reduced from what it was at its height, tools for critical thinking, down to trivia information about when certain philosophers were born and what they thought of certain concepts. Western society particularly doesn’t teach the ability to think critically. They focus on these trivialities rather than educating the individuals on how to formulate their own opinions and ideas with the tools of philosophy. We’ve successfully obstructed what philosophy really is, which is a way to acquire perspective. And now we’re faced with a western society incapable of processing complex information. It’s become common place to delegate opinion development to media and social medial platforms and sources. The development of philosophy has been left to politics…

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Barely a Kid

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Been a while since the pen on paper made me smile
Until now, I’ve been a faker, couldn’t take it
Thoughts runnin’ wild, but I’ve been tired
Don’t get mistaken
Used to write a quarter mile, then the isle broke
That mild smoke left leaving change to cope
Rearranged the hope, a strange cloud to float
Lingering stench, couldn’t find a wrench to fix the mess
The kiss of death dismissed my breath
Gasping, no longer raspy, just gaps be that mask me
Hiding the face beneath
Sheathed the sharp tongue with which I speak
Write obscene, to run…

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Strange Place

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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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Echoes in the Walls

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Still I sit at the center of the hall facing where I’d go if I moved. Time has become irrelevant in my world. Whether it’s been a few minutes or a hundred years isn’t discernible. There isn’t a day or night to tell. There isn’t anything. Nothing changes in this place.

The region I’m in is filled with empty pods. No sight of dead clones anywhere. Indents riddle the wall opposite the pods more frequently, visible from one another. Yet, no door. No exit. No escape. No anything. Never anything.

I’ve decided to sit and wait. My attempts to kill myself are fruitless. My attempts to starve fruitless.

Finding and end to this hallway. Fruitless.

Finding a living clone. Fruitless.

Deviation is nonexistent.

I’ve been consumed by madness many times over just to regain….

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Sobriety

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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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Travel Traders: Desert

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At the tail end of their first journey together, the couple finds themselves starving and freezing in search of the desert kingdom to make their big sale and find shelter.

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We’ve been out here for days. Six. Wandering. No sight of anything. No site or anything. This desert goes on and on. Our water supply is running low. Our stamina is burning off quicker each day.

Our tents have kept us warm during the sun’s intense rule of the sky. We’re on the move again at the start of the frozen nights, following the glow of each others lanterns. But even the lantern oil is drier with each night. With the dark comes harsher sandstorms trying to steal the air away. Yet, the goal has all but…

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Internet Fire

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Absent minds caged in present bodies

Rage that festers misplaced and rotting

The stench of hate with blood clotting

Boiling crazed surface bubbles

Quiet pops and explosive rubble

Crumbled structures,  knocked dominos

Struck and assured lightning,  double

Tipped trucks and sequential events

Rocked by repent stuck in events

Loops of screaming heads

Transcend red colored vents

Splattered from the massacre

Of high horses in fire set

Blazed internet

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Travel Traders

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A traveling trader tells the story of how his wife joined him on a journey.

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Crackling embers and creaking crickets fill the silent night. Branches sticking from the dirt holding up wolf meat to be licked by the flames. Martha’s been quiet for hours. She only leaves her tent to turn the meat and returns.

I keep rubbing a smooth stone along the edges of our swords. It seem to lecture her every time we barely survive a battle. “Attack and dodge!” I tell her repeatedly. She assures me she’s doing what she can, but I fear being witness to her death. We barely escaped today’s encounter with our lives.

We couldn’t retrieve the treasure the golem guarded or its heart. We were too exhausted to continue. Running for our lives was what we had left. An entire day wasted.

At the beginning it was just me taking these month long journeys to track and retrieve expensive treasures from across the land. Martha didn’t my elongate absences. She’d complain and request coming along to help. She’d say, together we could watch each others backs and go where I wouldn’t dare alone. Eventually, I had no choice but to agree. We trained for…

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Shifting Monster

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I don't pretend to be the good guy.

I'm just not hiding my dark side.

I played nice but it ain't fine.

All my plays line under grey skies.

Let the rain fall over flames dying.

Used to chase lies but I stop trying.

And the clot from the smoke in my lungs made me choke.

But the flood cleansed the river and the air delivered hope.

Beware,  with mind clear and held rope I hang regrets here.

Under the waterfall crashing over rising steam and asphalt superheated from fading fire from dissolving demons as a monster I became to defeat them.

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Evolving Force

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Consumed by myself. I am living in hell. Twisting mind isn't well. From the good I'm repelled. Where I stood,  ground is held. Swiss knife crude,  blooded bell. Ringing ears,  broke shells. Brisk breeze frozen in cells. Trapped indulgent, expelled demons ravaged the trail. Still transforming but frail. Soon acquire the grail. Quite admired, derailed. Just too tired to tail. Setting fires to fail. Flames rose higher. Refusal to retire. The new age will rage empires risen by crazed beastly crying. At tops peak my eyes spying. I've evolve,  all else dying. Animalistic,  still trying. Till last breaths fighting,  I'll be.

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Immortalized

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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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String A Longs

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We don't learn

We spin and turn while stomachs churn

And ache and burn

Riddled and unanswered

Lazy claiming hands hurt

Phased by changing landscapes

In the dark holding no lanterns

Facing our last takes

Chasing past mistakes

Deep breaths and smiles faked

Refusing to raise the stakes

Hearts too scared to break

Wont pierce through fear

Yet blood thirsty and fierce

Cowards trembling and biting

The same cowards never found fighting

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New Ideas: Video Game Development

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Jack writes of new creative ventures to pursue.

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For several years I’ve been dabbling in game development. Learning the annoying ins and outs of game design and balancing. It’s definitely one of the most creative activities I’ve ever had the pleasure of experiencing and taking part in. It is also definitely one of the more difficult things I’ve attempted. It’s right up there with advanced arts like Novel Writing and Portrait Painting. The intricate details that formulate a single fraction of the bigger picture are absurdly complex. Similar to novel writing, if a single piece of the puzzle no longer works the entire bigger picture has the potential to collapse. One loose thread can unravel the entire stitch work.

Some of the more trying times I’ve encountered have arrived with game updates. Each new addition to the game can break all the other parts. Nothing can simply be forced in or added. Incorporation is the correct term. All new features must be carefully molded to fit the existing project like they were there from the start. Frustrations have been faced on multiple occasions do to this. I’m sure had I been someone else I would have quit as these moments came forward. Luckily, I’m a bit of a masochist and push…

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Sick Temper

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I'm broken. I've chosen to work with it. Certain its hopeless.  Its slow fizzing. Not sure when I might pop. But for sure something'll get me to blow my top. Head's hot. And they tell me I'm cold. This fever has me sweating. I call it addiction to accomplishment,  challenge and work. Others label it being a narcissistic snark jerk. I'm just impatient with the lazy. Call me crazy.

Tempered. Boiling cold. I'm striding forward on this road and tearing down whatever forest stands in my way.

Struggle and success are how I play.

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Chirping Confused

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Electronics broadcasting from our pockets, handing us opinions and beliefs. Critical thinking and self reflection is a thing of the past. Media slavery is the new wave. The new order.

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Pocket mirrors. Clever image. Surfing while catching waves. Searching for shelter. For cover. Dodging rays. Pixel boxes with dark displays. Projected normality. Morality is stray.

Minds stranded far away. Used to pay for electric food. To feed on the endless stream. Turned flood, we’re dragged and taken. Awaken washed up together on a beach with cardboard oceans and salt for sand.

Confused and fragmented we obey chirping Bluejay. Let them lead us. Seed us to repeat like parrots misunderstanding freedom. Thinking the caged bird sings ‘cause joy. Meanwhile…

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