I Became Tired Of Drawing Crude Comics About Quentin Tarantino and Al Pacino

In the moment of sickness and frustration, there may be something else. Hold on tight to the stomachaches, grasp blindly at the dizziness. Hope it passes on through, but in this sick detoxification of sobriety, hold on to sanity as it follows through with the stumbling and half-assed attempts at something real.

So in the length and in the distance, I hope you make all the effort in the world to cook a proper birthday cake. It's better than eating bagels all damn day.

Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III, You Confuse the Fuck Out of Me With Your God Damn Viral Campaigns -- Fuck Copeland; They Ain't Worth Shit

Screw the music, I'm here for the business.

And to find out her name, knowing she is not, in fact, Carah Faye.

Down the river toward the sunlight in her hair, she strut, all sneakers, all shoelaces, all pavement. The river runs, straight through the downtown streets. The water trickles down between her feet, against her body, wrapped around her mind. The water, it suffocates, gasping -- she walks forth; pulled onward by the light. There is nothing there, but innocence of a childhood time long lost to age and wisdom, gloom settling down onto a soul far wiser than her years.

Her sunglasses lay helpless upon her forehead, her fingers tangled within key chains in her pants. Closer than the water to her skin, was the hands around her neck, and the footsteps on her heel. The sensation of burning, bruising, or bashing against her skull numbing the every move she made. Breathe in, breathe out, hold her head high, she moves on in the dim glow of twilight, soaking in the water that washed through millions of decaying bodies.

So through the heavy metal, the punks, rivetheads, and every other bad stereotype in the book, she stands strong.

And through to the light she can run, legs pumping harder than a child on a swing set, hair flying behind her with no need of a straightening iron.

No more, but the warmth of sunlight against her face, and her freckles; freckles that had never been there in the dark.

So Fifteen Years Wasn't Nearly Long Enough For Reality to Set In

I ask myself, 'What would I trade for one more day?' The time melted away the comforts once familiar, the mark of age piercing our innocence. The news never sounded so pessimistic, the sky so dark, or the sun so far away. In the gloom of summer behind a sea of clouds, I trade it all away -- the friend whom nobody would've pinned, the stupid green West 49 hat, the functioning headphones. I trade it all away for one more day, just like things used to be. Singing songs to the sky around the flames, laughing, joking; wasting away.

So here I am, one more year, one more step behind. Was it worth it in the end that all these days string so close, that suddenly it hasn't even hit me yet, but I know I've done something incredibly stupid in regards to my future? So I hold it off, know that realization may never hit me, and I can't keep sinking for one more year, because that may hurt me more than I ever imagined. Got to buck down, work harder, take more responsibility. Perhaps sleep -- as sleep tends to help things.

I'll try to write, like I always do.
I'll try to dream, like I always will.
I'll keep on sinking under the city lights, dreaming of a better life laced with sin and satisfaction, sex and attractive men.

This is the most truthful I've been in the last five years.
This is me, and all I've ever been afraid of.
I've learned, there is too much to lose.
This year, I'm going to have the most fun I've ever had in my life, with my future on the tips of my fingers.

This year is for me, and only me.

At the end of the day, I still find myself laughing. Laughing, because the new couches wouldn't fit through the front door.

A Tale for Lorni Hales

Girl of fifteen; girl so young.
Smile at the wisdom that you still hold,
And pray for the day it doesn't fade away.

Corner to the bracket,
Word to the paper –
Work it out until there's nothing left.

Pen to the lips,
Juice to the sky;
Hold tight for good night wishes.

Then one more love,
One more life,
One more dream come true.

Girl of fifteen; girl so worn.
Use those crayons up,
Stay young – don’t' be afraid.

Shaking Hands with the Faceless Famous Wearing Sex Pistol Tributes

Together in the blazing desert sun,
Smoking cigars and listening to One.
Metallica doesn't add up to all these lies,
Days turned to clouds drifting by.

So bad 90's music doesn't match Metallica,
And the bedroom doesn't match open field.
End of story for what we once knew...
Because now I've learned.

It's not worth the rhymes.

A week since disaster ensued, there is nothing but mist in the air and whispers in the wind, dancing off the tongue of strangers. Standing in a hotel lobby, I patiently wait for the time to run out, and the tomatoes to rot, in hopes that I will find some sort of closer from inside the bank vault.

There is nothing short of innocence here, and nothing short of innocence lie elsewhere in misspellings and horrible rapture.

The Sirens Wail for Both First and Second

Merry Christmas, happy birthday, blessthefall, Escape the Fate, gold medal BREAKAWAY!

Wedding vows under a skylight, recited word for word unto eternity; meaningless exchange of gifts, of money, of excess information and informal gossip. Said the excuse to spend thousands, excuse to buy the jewels.

Back to the street corner, the city never sounded so much like home. The glint of neon and chrome glistening in the ambulance windows as we roar off into the dust and dawn.

Snap a picture, right a chair and climb aboard. Lose touch -- but don't lose faith.

There's a reason we carried him off in an ambulance; there's a reason I'm still standing here tonight.

Hope you're doing better, man. When the day before yesterday blurs into a fine line of misery business and enigmatic sin. 

When the sirens fade out, on the second ambulance, we don't waste our time to cry.

That makes twelve accidents, two ambulances, eight dead birds, and five dollars less in the last two days.

Going Mobile, Until Arctic Meets Atlantic

I'll pretend that my favourite band isn't stealing lines from the Smashing Pumpkins; soaked in sin and wrapped in skin we float forward into the void we like to call sanity and publicity. There's a horizon over the edge of the corner slab, where the corpse lay undisturbed. We're living in an idyllic utopian state, where warfare and meager belongings are far away from the common mind.

There are disasters about to happen, and conspiracy theories thwarted by common sense. There is a hair in my chicken noodle soup, a spoon in my pudding, a light bulb in my play-doh. I've forgotten how to spell simple words, and find it difficult to wire together sentences with mismatched phrases.

My favourite thing to do is scream from rooftops about lemonade and silver string -- it's a pass time I rather enjoy.

Cut the Crack, Cut the Curtains, Cut Cute Is What We Aim For, Cut(e) without the E, Cut From the Team, Cut the Cord and Hang the President

Today, on the Chopin block...

We're running behind on hours, racing around the track once, thrice, to keep up with the clocks. There's two people in the middle of it all. A boy and a girl who overlaps each other and tangle together in a sluggish mess. These people, they're qualified to spin in circles all day. They're qualified to win, just as I'm qualified to watch from the sidelines, and race along the loser's track.

There's nothing to prove, nothing to say, nothing but self-absorbed sanity.

No more safety, with no more faith.

I can't feel you here anymore.

There is no honesty in lengthy apologies, so I refrain from meaningless banter.

Sleigh Bells Ring on Top of Old Major's Jail Cell

Before the boots; the Nine Inch Nails CDs and the Russian novels were from different worlds. Now we are, but all is lost into the din of sadness and horror -- hide behind the Alice Cooper style make up, and make up your own reasons for owning DKNY and Gucci when you don't bother with worse for wear. Thin, dine, words wound together in a bedroom desk drawer and dear God, have we had time to lose our minds, loosen our ties, forge our futures and step forth into the shoes of sinners?

We're all letting ourselves down.

Don't eat that.

It's mine.

In Bat Country on the Same Plane as Historical References, Umbrella Academys, and Drug Abuse

There's no time to tie your shoes on the high road to heaven, when the keyboard clicks are background noise to the lead singer of your former favourite band, and the idea of being the number one fan has gained only sex appeal in the last ten years. There are groupies -- always groupies, sane as a bad typo and online instant messages through networking websites, bad hearing and corn nuts. Smile out an open window, smile for a Metallica song replayed so many times your brains hurt, and smile for that light bulb you keep forgetting to replace.

There's the best friend who nags for reason, and the stroll around the neighborhood that leaves you wondering whether you bought groceries last night. Back to that run down shack of a home -- where the bed is the only place you can't get a good night's sleep, and the kitchen smells of paint fumes more than something vaguely reminiscent of edible. In a careful sense, there's the canister of gasoline on the edge of the fire we mustn't knock over, before you depart.

Then your off into the wild, to the lake for another week of camping and blames and truths and all in betweens; leave me here in the fallout -- crying because you're not coming back. Not this time, not next time, not the car accident that's your life, or the drug induced euphoria that's your sanity. No more, no less, but former and latter, and all that remains is dust, and a stupid trucker hat.