You'll read this, but will it matter?
When Apocalypse comes don't expect looting, rioting, panicking or any mass church ceremonies. Expect orgies.
When my heart explodes don't expect rage or tears of laughter or cries. Expect murder.
I have finally succumb to the fact that nothing will work out for me. "I'm sorry," I tell myself, "but good things don't happen to you."
When forever unravels don't expect tears or regret or sorrow. Expect that I should have expected it.
No gimmicks. No clever livejournal titles. No ten dollar words only proving that I was a good English student. No desperate attempts at flattery. No dire need for attention. No more feeding the sycophantic. No more begging to be heard by the one person who should always be listening.
This is not a misunderstanding. This is internal bleeding. This is the light at the end of the tunnel that turned out to be only a torch to burn you. This is the last hope that failed. This is terrific because for so long I wanted a tragedy to inspire great literature. And when my heart explodes don't expect coherence or sensible sentence structuring. Expect autobiographical poetic repetition disguised as fictional prose.
Will this lose all meaning after I revise it and spellcheck it? Is raw emotion lost when in the hands of a perfectionist?
This is real. This is pain. This is me climbing to the tallest building in the city, cutting myself and bleeding all over the indifferent citizens that just carry on with their lives down below.
This is the plunge I will never take. The last shot I will never hear. This is the one time that I should give up, but I won't. I'm foolish. I'm dense. I'm simple. I'm preposterous. I'm asinine. I'm so fucking retarded. I actually believe her when she says that things will get better.
Once again I say "fuck the iceberg theory." I'm not hinting at the plot anymore. Feel my goddamn pain.
The perfect embodiment of a man. Of a father, of my true father lies in the Punxy Hospital dying. My grandfather. My Bup. The man who named me Dutch. the man who taught me to swim. The one who taught me to swear. The man who used to tell me the most inappropriate jokes and make my mother agitated. The man who used to set me on his lap and showed me how to do crosswords puzzles. The man who taught me the importance of reading and being intelligent. The man who promised me I would someday stand above his gigantic, towering 6 feet. The man who used to scare me because he was always getting sick. The man who made me cry and made me mad because he gave up. Because he got throat cancer again and wouldn't go for the treatment because it hurt too badly. The man who used to pick me up over his head and now can't even walk on his own. The man who taught me that peanut butter toast is "just not peanut butter toast unless you put butter on it first." The man who never did anything but absolutely everything for me. The man who made me. The man who can't give up because I need him. Because I was afraid to go see him for a few weeks because I didn't think he'd like my black hair. The man who named me, but still had to go through seven or eight of his grandchildren before he got to my name. For so long I've been called "Rick . . . Mike. . . John. . . Crystal. . .Dutch." The man who if I'm anything like I will be a great man. The man who can't give up.
When my heart explodes don't expect rage or tears of laughter or cries. Expect murder.
I have finally succumb to the fact that nothing will work out for me. "I'm sorry," I tell myself, "but good things don't happen to you."
When forever unravels don't expect tears or regret or sorrow. Expect that I should have expected it.
No gimmicks. No clever livejournal titles. No ten dollar words only proving that I was a good English student. No desperate attempts at flattery. No dire need for attention. No more feeding the sycophantic. No more begging to be heard by the one person who should always be listening.
This is not a misunderstanding. This is internal bleeding. This is the light at the end of the tunnel that turned out to be only a torch to burn you. This is the last hope that failed. This is terrific because for so long I wanted a tragedy to inspire great literature. And when my heart explodes don't expect coherence or sensible sentence structuring. Expect autobiographical poetic repetition disguised as fictional prose.
Will this lose all meaning after I revise it and spellcheck it? Is raw emotion lost when in the hands of a perfectionist?
This is real. This is pain. This is me climbing to the tallest building in the city, cutting myself and bleeding all over the indifferent citizens that just carry on with their lives down below.
This is the plunge I will never take. The last shot I will never hear. This is the one time that I should give up, but I won't. I'm foolish. I'm dense. I'm simple. I'm preposterous. I'm asinine. I'm so fucking retarded. I actually believe her when she says that things will get better.
Once again I say "fuck the iceberg theory." I'm not hinting at the plot anymore. Feel my goddamn pain.
The perfect embodiment of a man. Of a father, of my true father lies in the Punxy Hospital dying. My grandfather. My Bup. The man who named me Dutch. the man who taught me to swim. The one who taught me to swear. The man who used to tell me the most inappropriate jokes and make my mother agitated. The man who used to set me on his lap and showed me how to do crosswords puzzles. The man who taught me the importance of reading and being intelligent. The man who promised me I would someday stand above his gigantic, towering 6 feet. The man who used to scare me because he was always getting sick. The man who made me cry and made me mad because he gave up. Because he got throat cancer again and wouldn't go for the treatment because it hurt too badly. The man who used to pick me up over his head and now can't even walk on his own. The man who taught me that peanut butter toast is "just not peanut butter toast unless you put butter on it first." The man who never did anything but absolutely everything for me. The man who made me. The man who can't give up because I need him. Because I was afraid to go see him for a few weeks because I didn't think he'd like my black hair. The man who named me, but still had to go through seven or eight of his grandchildren before he got to my name. For so long I've been called "Rick . . . Mike. . . John. . . Crystal. . .Dutch." The man who if I'm anything like I will be a great man. The man who can't give up.