(no subject)
untitled short story part one
Category: Writing and Poetry
is there really a middle ground? in a world so full of distractions, where so
often we are what we have is it possible to not be defined by possesion but
by who we percieve ourselves to be? can we define ourselves in this
manner? could one be that honest?
these questions pass through my head that day as i listen to her scream
at the top of her lungs at the yuppie scumbags as they pass by us
pretending not to notice
' your status is a lie ' she screams
' you're all being duped '
' the american dream equates to slavery '
and i sit there next to her holding a sign that reads
' please help support our food addiction '
yes we are homeless
yes we are young
yes we do drugs
yes we drink excessively
no we don't mind
we think its fun
you could take one look at us and experience apathy
my pants are dirty and stained ripped and patched with whatever i could
find
my shirt is stained with vomit and blood and various types of alcohol
my hair is a greasy and matted mess and if i took my shirt off you
would see a mosaic work of scars and the words FUCK YOU tattooed
across my chest
to say i have some piercings would be an understatement
i was once told that if you held a magnet close to my face it would rip off
i have holes the size of traech rings in my ears and a carved bone from
a human hand is shoved through my septum three metal bars make their
way down the bridge of my nose and i have small hoops in the lower
corners of my lips and my eyebrows are pierced three times on each side
a so called modern primitave
her femaninity is of the quality that screams rape victim
her hair is a short tangled multicolored mess around her neck she dons a
bondage collar with inch lond spikes and she wears a shirt that says
' i'm waiting to die' written in black marker she wears a pleated school girl
skirt and layers of riped thigh highs and fish nets cover her legs
her arms a scarred from cigarette burns and razor blades and needles
she wears twelve hole steel toe boots
a man walks by ' get a fucking job junkies ' he says as he flicks his cigarette
at her she picks it up and says ' thank you kind sir may i have another '
she hands it to me and asks how much money we have
' not enough ' i tell her we need about twenty more dollars
she stops a woman wearing a power suit
' hey look me and my useless boyfriend here just wanna see if we can die
tonight and all we needs twenty bucks i mean just look at this way if you
help and we are successful you won't see us here tomorrow '
somehow this works and the woman coughs up the cash we now have
money for enough booze to drink ourselves into oblivion a hotel room and
the dope that we so desperately need
Category: Writing and Poetry
is there really a middle ground? in a world so full of distractions, where so
often we are what we have is it possible to not be defined by possesion but
by who we percieve ourselves to be? can we define ourselves in this
manner? could one be that honest?
these questions pass through my head that day as i listen to her scream
at the top of her lungs at the yuppie scumbags as they pass by us
pretending not to notice
' your status is a lie ' she screams
' you're all being duped '
' the american dream equates to slavery '
and i sit there next to her holding a sign that reads
' please help support our food addiction '
yes we are homeless
yes we are young
yes we do drugs
yes we drink excessively
no we don't mind
we think its fun
you could take one look at us and experience apathy
my pants are dirty and stained ripped and patched with whatever i could
find
my shirt is stained with vomit and blood and various types of alcohol
my hair is a greasy and matted mess and if i took my shirt off you
would see a mosaic work of scars and the words FUCK YOU tattooed
across my chest
to say i have some piercings would be an understatement
i was once told that if you held a magnet close to my face it would rip off
i have holes the size of traech rings in my ears and a carved bone from
a human hand is shoved through my septum three metal bars make their
way down the bridge of my nose and i have small hoops in the lower
corners of my lips and my eyebrows are pierced three times on each side
a so called modern primitave
her femaninity is of the quality that screams rape victim
her hair is a short tangled multicolored mess around her neck she dons a
bondage collar with inch lond spikes and she wears a shirt that says
' i'm waiting to die' written in black marker she wears a pleated school girl
skirt and layers of riped thigh highs and fish nets cover her legs
her arms a scarred from cigarette burns and razor blades and needles
she wears twelve hole steel toe boots
a man walks by ' get a fucking job junkies ' he says as he flicks his cigarette
at her she picks it up and says ' thank you kind sir may i have another '
she hands it to me and asks how much money we have
' not enough ' i tell her we need about twenty more dollars
she stops a woman wearing a power suit
' hey look me and my useless boyfriend here just wanna see if we can die
tonight and all we needs twenty bucks i mean just look at this way if you
help and we are successful you won't see us here tomorrow '
somehow this works and the woman coughs up the cash we now have
money for enough booze to drink ourselves into oblivion a hotel room and
the dope that we so desperately need