Below is a set of similar poems written for a university project in 2015. Every once in a while I will come across stories I’d written in the past, and will be publishing them here so I can have them all in one place. This collection of poems has not been edited from its original form.

The best time is sunset
when things start to happen,
because I’ve just woken up
and my day is just beginning.

I recognize that it is the end for most,
but is this why it is appealing?
Is it
the quiet softness of the night
that never ceases to comfort?

I’m not sure it matters.

It is in those dull evenings
when I wake myself
after they have all gone to sleep
that I find that there is still pleasure in
living alone.

After sunset
I can stop
and think
without the burning noise
of the everlasting summer.


The best time is sunset
when things start to happen,
because I’ve just woken up
and my day is beginning

It’s the end of the day,
is that why I like it?
Is it
the quiet softness
that constantly comforts?

In those dull evenings
when I wake myself
while others sleep
I find pleasure in
living alone

After sunset
I can stop
and think
without the burning
noise of
summer everlasting.


The best time is sunset
when things start to happen,
because I’ve just awoken
and my day is starting

It’s the end of sunlight,
is that why I like it?
Is it
the quiet comfort
or continuous ease?

In those dull evenings,
when I rise from the dusk
as others dream
I am glad to have
lived alone.

After sunset
I cease
and surmise
that the burning
noise of summer
lasts forever.


The best time is sunset
when things start to happen,
because I’ve just awoken
and the day’s hate is over.

It’s the end of sunlight,
and that’s why I like it.

In those dead evenings,
when I rise from the dusk
as others dream
I’m glad to have
lived by myself.

After sunset
I stop
and wonder
if the burning
noise of summer
will last

Living in Winter

The best time is sunset
when things start to happen,
at the dawn of my own day
the absence of light is born.

Sunlight is dead,
that’s why I love it.

In those tired evenings,
when I rise from my coffin
as others rejuvenate
living by myself
peels me away.

After sunset
time stops
and I contemplate
if the stinging heat
of summer
will ever end.


The best time is sunset
when things start to happen,
at the dawn of my own day
when the light’s hate
is over.

It’s the end of sun,
that’s why I love it.

In those tired evenings,
when I rise from my ashes
as others
living by myself
peels me away.

After sunset
time stops
and I wonder
if the stinging heat
of summer
ever ends.


The best time is sunset
when things start to happen,
when my day starts
and the light’s hate
has ended.

It’s the end of sun,
and that’s why I love it.

In those tired evenings,
when I rose from my ashes
as others rejuvenated,
living by myself
peeled me away.
After sunset
time stops
and I wonder
if summer
ever ends.


The best time is sunset,
when things start to happen.
After my own day starts
and the light’s hate
has ended.

It’s the end of sun,
and that’s why
I love it.

In those tired evenings,
when I rise from my ashes
as others rejuvenate,
living alone
peels me away.

After sunset,
time stops
and I wonder
if the stinging heat
of summer
will ever end.

Ars Poetica

To lay in the dark,

without purpose or


is to seal one’s own will

and to welcome decay.

The burning sensation

of boredom, which

squirms and burrows

in one’s skull is the precursor

to madness.

Yet, if one stops for a moment,

he can see his

slim and pasty fingers

flick and jitter and

ache and crave

the passage of thought.

All Of Us

To Crave Is…

To flail beneath the surface for air
inches from where blue meets white and
never reach the soft cool wind

To lie in a damp black room with
one window outside of which
a tiny stained bulb cracks and
snaps at you; your only thoughts
of how you haven’t eaten
all day

To breathe softly on a friend’s
back porch and stare
into the trees, listening to
the swarming insects,
finding mates and loving
their nectar, and grinding your teeth
because your nectar is
gone again.


             After the last song, we started down a dark street. There was a sound like the shock of a dropped eight-string, and it clouded our territory with distressed and anxious gnats, burrowing into our ears with a visceral scratching, the kind of scratching that may prompt one to beat himself for no reason other than to clear its echoes. A quick, sharp wail and an interrupted gasp followed the shock. Silk woven bags of sand spun and met their surroundings with the force of riot pellets against hard metal. But this was around the corner in an alley that always smelled of blood and burning heroin. That wasn’t our alley, ours was a block north. I felt the tingle in the back of my head again. The spiders were stepping ever so slowly up and down the inside of my skull, their sharp weaving feet tapping back and forth. I would soon breathe it again. Smell it, taste it, know it. The drip like old vitamins mother fed me twenty years ago. My primal instincts would best me soon, forcing me to crawl into my shadow beneath the grid once again.

The White Lines – Poem


The white lines began to blur

as my wrists folded under

the comatose chest


against the mirror

by the thin liquid

the razorblade drew

on accident.


Crumbling into the bright white

brought the happy numb

that felt like seventh grade

on the last day before summer,

when she gave you her number

on that old beige bus,

that you left,

absolutely elated.


It didn’t last long,

and neither did the next,

or the next,

one could go on

until this love

which crumpled my chest.


I’m alive again


in the dark,

forgetting about dad,

about mom,

and her

when the white lines blur.

Snow: Chapter 2

The cocaine ran me; I felt it flowing through my veins like a virus. It controlled me, worked me. It gave me a reason for just about anything. At 22, I had been using cocaine for about five years. I didn’t begin using habitually until I was 21. It wouldn’t be too harsh to say that it controlled my life. I was constantly buying coke from John up until now. The cocaine was exploding with energy in every muscle in my body as I stomped on the ice below me on my way to my car. I felt like a god; I could not be controlled and I could defeat and control whatever I wished. I stared for a minute at my car before cocking the baseball bat over my neck and slamming it into the door.
“God dammit! I fucking love it!” I hit the door a few more times before rearing my sweaty head towards my house, where my mother stood glaring at me.
“Get the fuck inside. Get the fuck inside!” I said, pointing my left hand at her. She quickly stepped back inside and slowly closed the door. I tore my car door open and sat down quickly. I rolled down the window and roughly smacked the side of the car, as if signaling somebody else to drive. Rolling the window up afterwards, I questioned my reason for the smacking. I started the car and stepped on the gas without hesitation. I was cruising at a good thirty-five miles an hour down Acorn Avenue before my tires gave up on me, slamming the passenger side of my vehicle into the trunk of a parked car.
“Hahaha… Ohhh shit.” I said, quickly looking around to see if anyone had witnessed the collision. “Fuck it.” I said, grabbing the steering wheel as hard as my hands would allow and cutting it left. I was not bothered by the wreck, and I assumed nobody had seen it, so I continued speeding, sliding around corners until I reached Greg’s street. There was an ominous feeling about as I slowed myself then, breathing in the air. Though my windows were all the way up, I smelled something horrible. The street had a smell of death lingering about it. Trashcans filled to their brim and distasteful furniture sat along the curb of seemingly every house. “This place is a fucking shit hole.” I said, realizing soon afterwards that I lived only a couple streets away from this one. I looked to my right and saw Greg’s house. His home looked like less of a house and more of a small manor of sorts. Although old, Greg’s house was not too shabby, and I became slightly jealous. I screeched to a stop over the curb and looked into Greg’s house. Clutching one side of my nose, I inhaled again in an attempt to put more cocaine in my system. Sure enough, my throat became numb again and I felt the usual rush. This time was different though. I felt this incredible ecstatic rush, but overpowered by a blanket of anger and hatred. I yanked the key from the ignition and grabbed my door as quickly as I could. Without hesitation, I stepped halfway out from my car and grabbed my baseball bat that had been riding shotgun. I slammed the door hard and inspected the dents I had put in my car just a few minutes before. After looking for a good minute or two, I vigorously stomped up onto the sidewalk and down Greg’s shitty layout of bricks and dead flowers making a “walk way” that he may have thought looked nice. I approached the door and looked into the window. I did not see Greg. I grabbed my nose again and inhaled. I was ready to go.
After about thirty seconds of standing to check for witnesses, I turned my head, biting my lip. I retracted my elbow and shattered Greg’s front door.
“Come out you fucking piece of shit! I know you’re in there bitch!”
“Mark.” I heard Greg’s voice drift calmly through his dark hallway.
“I said come out here, faggot!” I said, looking down to spit on the fancy carpet in his foyer.
“Mark… we can talk about this.” He said. All of the pain that Greg had caused my mother, and therefore myself, brought me to believe that violence was the only option at this point.
“I’ve been putting up with you screaming at my mother all these years and now you beat her? Do you not understand who you’re fucking with right now!” My goal was to frighten Greg, although I spoke nothing but the truth.
“Mark, just calm down.”
“I said get out here.” I stated in a slightly more calm tone.
“Mark, I have a gun.”
“Oh do you? You have a gun? You? You fucking pussy! You’ve never seen a gun in your goddamn life!” I said, stepping through his threshold then. “Greg… Greg. All you are is a worthless waste of life.” I gripped my baseball bat and slammed it into the legs of a small table on the left side of his foyer. The table crumbled opening a drawer where various work items like staplers and paperclips had been. “I’m telling you, I’m not fucking around this time.”
“Mark, don’t make me shoot you.”
I still couldn’t see Greg; I could only hear his weak, cowardly voice.
“Fucking shoot me then! Shoot me!” I took a pause, walking deeper into his house. I was passing glass pictures and vases. “Oh these are nice.” I said, before swinging my bat at them. Glass covered the ground I walked on towards Greg’s gutless voice. I jumped up and down on the glass, making sure it was broken and pleasing the demon inside of me. I slid around the corner swiftly and I glared at Greg sitting in an especially dark corner of his living room. Sure enough, Greg was shaking a revolver with two hands nervously. “You are no man. You see, people don’t fuck with my family, understand?” I said, approaching Greg’s fat shaking body.
“Mark… Mark, I promise. I swear to Jesus Christ this wont happen again, I swear!”
“Oh. Oh, I know that already” I said, reaching into my pocket.
“Wha… What are you… you doing?”
“Oh just… nothing.” I pulled my driver’s license from my wallet. Grabbing Greg by his throat, he dropped his weapon.
“Who’s powerful now? Huh? Who’s the boss, bitch?” I easily slid the card horizontally into Greg’s drooling mouth. Greg tried to say something, but with the license in his mouth, it was very distorted and slurred. Saliva dripped from the card and onto his hardwood floor as he cried in fear. Grunting and snorting all the while, I wiggled the card around in Greg’s mouth.
“This will only hurt, well… a lot to be very frank.” I laughed.
“Please… please. What…” I heard Greg spit just before I powerfully kicked him in his ribcage. I had always dreamed of giving somebody a Chelsea Smile, but I figured I would need a knife for the operation. Since I didn’t have a knife handy at the time, I figured the I.D. would work. Exactly as I had hoped, Greg grew two cuts along the sides of his mouth as I continuously kicked him. His screams only stretched the cuts over his cheeks until they nearly reached his ears.
“Now that’s a pretty fucking smile!” I said jokingly, kicking Greg in his groin this time. His screams were muffled by the huge amount of furniture and other useless shit comprising his living room. Greg’s face was now covered in blood rolling over his two chins onto his chest. I could tell he was going into shock after all of his screaming.
“Hey buddy. Hey, Greg. Greg!” I smacked him in the face, trying to wake him up. I wanted Greg to experience as much pain as I possibly could inflict before I did what I needed to do, but the cocaine was pushing me to use my baseball bat. I wielded the baseball bat high above my head and promptly slugged the top right side of his fat head. The loudest crack I had heard since I hit that car before flew in and out of my ears. Greg’s head was slightly caved in and I laughed harder and harder with each swing of the bat. After three or four hits I had pulverized his head into nothing but a circle of pulp. His head drooped over his chest and the blood flowed from the lacerations in his skull onto his old Grateful Dead tee shirt. Just the sight of this wasted man sparked feelings of lovely amusement inside of me. “Oh shit dude… didn’t mean to do all that.” I kneeled down around his body for about thirty seconds before I stood up and prepared to walk away from the scene. “Oh you’ll be fine, don’t be such a pussy.” I said, ruffling what hair he had left on his head and smiling. About three steps away from the body, I felt a strong urge to hit it again. I turned around and slammed the bat into his chest, completely knocking the body onto its side. This covered the floor in more blood than I had supposed there was, and it pleased me. I licked my lips and turned around to face the cold air ahead.
The pull of my thumb against the flint of my lighter stung, but warmed the air momentarily as I lit a cigarette on Greg’s porch. Lifting my head I took a huge sighing pull from my cigarette and exhaled, watching the mixture of smoke and steaming air flow from my mouth and nose. My mind was overflowing with adrenaline and burning warmth. I had absolutely no idea what I was thinking and I was having a hard time remembering how I got to where I was standing. I did not know why I was feeling what I was feeling; all I knew is that it was good. I could’ve stood there and bathed in my homicidal bliss for hours, but I knew that it was time to go.
The cocaine was slowly but surely working itself out of my system. I felt a strange tingling in the back of my head, a consistent signal that the drug was leaving my body. For a split second I found myself unaware of where I was or what I was doing. Driven by fear, I closed my eyes and shoved my knuckles against them. Pressing into my eyes always brought about a beautiful array of colors that completely covered my spectrum of vision. Coming off of cocaine is really hard to deal with, and I couldn’t tell if what I was doing to my eyes was making it better or worse.
“Christ,” The colors were growing more intense with each second. All the while I wondered if the colors I saw while pressing my eyes were normal effects of the act, or if I could possibly have some sort of serious mental problem. I quite often ignored problems that I saw with my body and its function. I knew that my body was deteriorating, but I really didn’t care too much. My skin was an unhealthy pale, my hands often shook, my knees were weak, and I was seriously underweight. However, this time I was seriously worried. I didn’t know what was wrong with my eyes and it scared me. I quickly removed my hands from my eyes and felt a rush of blood into my head. I stumbled slightly through the snow towards my car and collapsed, my head spinning, my vision fading. I woke up to a burning rash on my cheek, which had been buried in the snow for days it seemed. I pulled my struggling body from the pile of snow adjacent from the sidewalk.
“Aaahh!” I cried, speaking in tongues of which I had never heard. Through my babbling nonsense, I thrust myself over the curb and vomited onto the street. Struggling to breathe, I continued to vomit before my chest seized up, dropping the rest of my body onto the sidewalk behind me. My breathing could be heard from yards away. The constant wheezing from years of smoking topped by the liquid vomit trapped in the back of my throat certainly made for a strange squeal. After waiting a few minutes, I sat up. I clenched my face, holding back sour disgusting burps crawling from my throat. Waiting a few more minutes, I stood completely upright. Surprisingly, I felt okay. I walked over to my car, got in and started it up. While driving home, I experienced the best high I had experienced in quite a while. This high was equivalent to no drug I had ever taken before in my life. I felt high all right, but it felt strange, a good kind of strange. This high felt natural. My body had released some kind of chemical that calmed my entire body while making me feel completely empowered at the same time. I was unstoppable, yet I figured I would take it easy on others. I watched my way throughout the slippery streets around town, making my way to my home quicker than usual. Just as I grabbed the icy cold stick, putting my car into park, visions of my recent run-in with Greg invaded my thoughts.
Blood covered the wall as I rounded a corner into a dark room in Greg’s house. I looked at my feet and saw Greg’s as well. Bent backwards in all kinds of heinous ways, Greg’s body lay in a corner, still dripping. His head was almost nothing, ribcage caved in, and arms spread wide. I looked up from my steering wheel back in my car and smiled. I patted my leg softly and felt the bag of cocaine still in my pocket.
“Cool” I said softly. My eyes were drooping and I was tired, but Greg’s corpse lay in my mind, waking my up, but keeping me calm at the same time. I looked down at my shaking phone to see a call from Peter.
“Hello?” I said calmly.
“Yo yo! What’s up playa?” Peter’s voice cut into my ear, destroying my serenity. Peter was used to talking to his mother, who was (legally) deaf, and had to be spoken to loudly. He lived with his mother up until about two years ago, when he split his kneecap with a saw in a metal cutting warehouse he worked in for minimum wage. Since he had to piss clean for the job itself, it was needless to say that he hadn’t spent much time on the job before slicing himself. Unemployment and workers compensation will not be paid if the employee doesn’t piss clean after the accident. And since he wasn’t making much money and really didn’t have any friends at the time, he had no drugs to use. Like myself, Peter pretty much gave up after high school and lived with his mother. Due to what he saw fit to call a blessing in disguise; he was able to move away from his mother and into an apartment in a really shitty part of the neighborhood. Peter’s poor mother was left to waste away in her home alone. She was always a big drinker, but she always treated Peter well. I knew that she would die soon, whether it was from intentional alcohol poisoning or some other means of suicide.
“Big Pete, what’s goin’ on?” I replied in an attempt to retain the calm that I had held but a few minutes ago.
“Nothing really, dude. I was just checking up, seeing if you wanted to chill tonight. I heard you got some of that good stuff. You know, that white girl bro. Anyways, I was thinking you could come chill at the crib, we can hit a few bumps, you know, call some bitches up. I was thinking about hitting up Daniel and Ken too, like gettin’ the boys back together again. What do you say bro?”
“Yeah I can do that. I plan on gettin’ some kind of repay for this white girl though. Can’t have y’all using up all my shit, especially some this good.” As soon as I finished my sentence, I realized that I hadn’t told anybody about the cocaine, and there was only one way that Peter could know. “Wait, Peter, what the fuck? How the fuck do you know about the shit?”
“Pfft” he took a sarcastic-sounding breath outwards before speaking. “Man, dude, Stacy is everywhere all the time.”
“What? How did she even know?” Normally I would have panicked at about this point in the conversation, but I was not worried now.
“Man, she said she saw the god damn bags hanging right out your shirt dude. Your boy John, what happened to that mother fucker?”
From nowhere, I heard sirens moving quickly about the streets surrounding mine. I quickly stepped onto the icy street and balanced my cell phone between my cheek and shoulder. Throwing my hood over my head, I marched down the sidewalk towards my front door.
“Shit, Pete, I gotta call you back. Wait, wait, matter of fact, I’ll just see you at your place tonight.” I said, ripping a key ring and a handful of lint from my pocket.
“Alright, well what time do you…” I hung up on Peter before he could finish his sentence and slipped my phone into my pocket.
Cramming the key into its slot and yanking it sideways was not enough to budge the door’s handle and I slammed my fist onto the door.
“Ma!” I exclaimed, attempting to get her attention in urgency.
“I’m coming.” I heard my mother whisper from the living room.
Ma opened the door for me, and I hopped through the threshold, in a ridiculous attempt to avoid the police. I sat in the living room, listening to the fading sirens as my mother talked strangely to the television.
Did I do everything right? I know there weren’t any fingerprints… what about the credit card? Could it have left some kind of imprint in his mouth? Could they tell what kind of baseball bat I was using? Could they trace that back to me? I sat, wondering all about what could and should have happened with the police, until something inside me told me to move. Stepping up the stairs and into my room, I slipped my phone from my pocket. After finding Peter in my contacts list, I sent him a text message. “B ther @ 9”. It was Seven O’ Clock.

Snow: Chapter 1



“I said… I lied Ma.  I don’t know what else to tell you.  It’s really not that fucking hard to understand.  Again and again you keep going on and on and on.  I fucking lied, alright?”
My mother completely changed her stance, standing in the way she always stood when she was upset.  Her left leg became shorter than the right; she placed her hands on her hips and opened her mouth up.  Every time she raises her wretched upper lip my mind drains void and I clench my fists.
“Why would you lie like that Mark, what the hell are you lying for?”
“Ma, I’m not even gonna answer that question.  You know yourself I don’t give shit about anything you say.  I lied, that’s it.  Shut your fucking mouth Ma.”
“You know Mark…” she began to say before being so appropriately interrupted by myself.  My mouth, wide open in disgust didn’t even get the chance to close before a statement thrust itself out of my throat.
“I said shut up Ma.”
“Mark I’m starting to get real tired of you talking to me that way.”
Without thinking, my feet pushed themselves across the squalid carpet shreds towards the decaying green door.
“Mark. Mark, where are you going?” I heard my mother speak in her strong New English accent. I had no reason to answer her; she didn’t care what I was doing. I shook my head and continued brushing along the carpet. My fingers gripped the raw, numbing handle of our door holding the cracks together.  I ripped it open and felt a rush of bitter, biting air that froze my fingers solid.  Stepping out onto the sidewalk, I felt the crisp ice crunch underneath my feet.  I lazily shuffled out towards my car hoping my shoes would stay dry.  Touching the handle of my rusty green van, I looked up.  I scanned the neighborhood with my small swollen eyes jumping from house to house.  “Every goddamn house is the same.” I said to myself.  I attempted to find any difference in the gradually deteriorating shacks that lined the sidewalks of Acorn Avenue.  It was a movie in my vision, a horrific and depressing sight to see. These were the houses of worms, of rats, slugs, and maggots. A few chuckles jumped off of my tongue as I shoved my key into my car, jerked it left, and opened the door.  For whatever reason, I felt as if my car would be warmer on the inside than it was on the outside, it wasn’t.  “Fuck!” I screamed, slamming my brittle palms onto the steering wheel. I twisted my hands towards my face in an appalling fashion, exposing the lumps of bones along my wrists. My hands were red and pulsating. The white flaky snakes skin holing onto my hands made me turn them away. I turned the car on, and a CD started up with it.  A song that I had left on when I stepped out last began to play from the middle; the first word that pumped from my speakers was coincidentally…  “Fuck.”
“Oh… shit.” I giggled. “Haven’t I said that enough already?” I imagined the artist in the same situation as I was.  “heh… haha… hahahahahahaha!” I started to laugh hysterically and slam myself against the broken seat I was sunken into.  The laughing continued for two or three minutes until I looked out of my foggy glass window into my house.  My mother was standing in the door, crying.  My smile drew back into a dead stare, as if I had acquired her as some kind of target. “There she goes again, again with the crying.  Stupid bitch doesn’t even know what she’s crying about…  heh… haha… hahahahahaha!” I started to laugh yet again, this time a sharp, vicious, sadistic laugh.  I reached my fingers up to my forehead and scraped my nails across the sickly white plastic I called a face.  It peeled, just as I thought it would, and I bled a little bit. Just as the laughter began to get even more intense, I felt the warm air exhale from my dusty AC units.  The air burned my newly opened cuts but I remained calm while the warm air soothed my body into a healing sensation.  I rested in my car for a while, pondering my next move.  I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew why.  There were only two things on my mind… coke and money.  I knew I couldn’t get either of those things from where I was so I gave John a call.
The phone began to ring.  I could feel myself slowly becoming insane.  My feet tapped nervously, my hands shook as the ringing in my ear slowly faded in and out.  “Fuck” I said yet again, recalling that John answered his phone every time I called him.  “Shit… something’s up.”  I pulled the car into drive and slowly slid across the smooth ice down the street.  As any person would know, it’s especially hard to drive over ice. But living in Colorado, I had grown used to pumping my breaks and slowly handling the gas to get anywhere. Every turn I took, right, left, right, left… same, simplicity.  Everything was the same. Every house, every mailbox, even all the cars looked at least somewhat similar.  My old brown tires fell into and popped out of every pothole under the broken black ice.  I moved slower than I thought, around every turn, down every dip, up every hill until I arrived at the dilapidated brown house with the swinging blue shutters.  My car, just now warming to the temperature I desired, pulled off up and over the curb aside John’s house.  I grabbed the warm pleather that was slowly sliding off of the handle on my door and prepared to make my way outside and into John’s house.  The instant my fingers clasped the handle, I paused.  My body had completely stopped itself, a gripping paralysis holding me. I couldn’t speak and I obviously couldn’t move. I could only stare; stare into the object in front of me until the horrific hallucinations took me. I knew what was coming, and I wasn’t going to try and stop it. Looking upon my hands, I felt a rush of orgasmic warmth roll over my shoulders and crawl up my neck.  A high-pitched, meditative ring reverberated in and out of my ears on both sides.  The ringing gradually sharpened and grew into an even more soothing, pulsating sensation.  My eyes locked on the dirty broken nails glued to my fingers.  My history, my past, slithered into my brain, I drifted.
“Mark I really with you’d just go to school.” I heard my mother say.
“Ma I was fucking sick of school to start, why would I ever go back.” I screamed to myself aloud.
“Damn Mark, how much of that shit you gonna do?” John’s voice floated into my ear.
“Chill the fuck out John!  I’ll do as much as I want. It’s my fucking money!” I screamed aloud.  The ringing became more intense and my nails burrowed into the handle of my door.
“I love you, Mark. I’ve never loved anything this much.” Christina’s voice blasted into my ears with an cutting energy that I would forever remember.
“I love you too.” I said aloud, responding to Christina’s voice consuming every thought in my ever-intoxicated mind.  I could hear her voice again, ripping my brain to shreds.
“Fuck you Mark! I fucking hate you!”  Those words… kill me day after day.  I heard them, haunting, harassing, burying and manifesting themselves in my entire body.
Images quickly drew themselves into my mind, my sight went black, my motor skills were lost, and I was choking, drowning, asphyxiated by the air that I breathe.  There was spit, water, or vomit, something in my throat. I tried to swallow but the paralysis gripped me.
I was in a room. Only a single light hung from its cracked ceiling. That one light dangling so sinisterly between cracks and holes in the concrete lifted my spirit to see.  It was the only glimpse of hope in this desecrated hopeless hell. The light was covered in a yellow crust, the source of which I did not know.  I felt a monstrous darkness consuming my entire body, a hole caving my chest inside of itself.  I still couldn’t breathe.  Gasping for air, attempting to calm myself, I inhaled an odor.  The room smelled so putrid and vile, a stench that strangely enough, I recognized.  Shuffling my feet across the filthy concrete seemed to move me but only a few inches, my only desire to end this nightmare.  From my right ear, I heard a booming crack.  I looked up to the sound to see a man surrounded by blinding light.  He stood so comfortably, looking down at me from a wooden staircase.  From what I could see, his face looked shriveled and dead.  I screamed at the top of my lungs in panic and horror several times, causing my eyes to itch and water.  Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I reached my trembling hands between the thick strands of hair standing on my head.  I gripped my hair and pulled my hands downwards as quickly as I could, thinking it might calm my fear somehow.  The pain of each strand slowly being unnaturally ripped from my scalp only added to my loss of sanity.  I looked at my hands covered in blood and wet strands of dark brown hair, and couldn’t help but scream again.
“You… you’re funny.” I heard the man state in a tranquil and harmonic tone.
“What the fuck is this!” I screamed.  I had never heard my voice like this before. My throat became slender and small squealing yelps attached themselves to my every word. The man chose not to move.  He waited, watching me wailing and quaking in anxiety and laughed.  His laugh sounded familiar, some wicked, repulsive howl that I thought I had heard somewhere before. The man lifted his right leg and violently kicked the door he stood adjacent to in the purest of rage until he stopped laughing.  He turned around, released one last chuckle and slammed the door behind him.
“Mark! Mark! Mark!” I heard shrieking in my right ear.  I opened my eyes, and I was in my car again.  I let out a massive sigh of relief, realizing that the horrific situation I had been so thankfully removed from was but an illusion.  I swallowed sharply and opened my mouth.
“What?” I peered up over the armrest of the van to see John’s girlfriend, Stacy, standing nervously at my door.  Her peeling face, so diseased and pallid, poured tears down the sides of the bruises and cuts opening her cheeks. I will say, even though Stacy was not the hottest thing around, I still had somewhat of a crush on her. I would often fantasize about fucking her and I could never tell why that was. Was I actually attracted to this girl, or was it just thinking of the possibility that John would blow his brains out in the back of his Ford Explorer because I fucked his “fiancé”.  She did have a nice body, or at least it was above average. John had her in the palm of his hand with the drugs, and their need to get high together. She’ll believe anything when she’s high. Nevertheless, I always looked at her the same way. I looked at her as if she was a dog, a nuisance, something that needed to be gotten rid of.
“It’s John! It’s John! Please come inside god dammit! He needs help!”  Without uttering a word, I pushed my door out into the freezing air, draining all of the warmth from my skin.   I stood up and sighed, stretching my chest into a yawn.
“Mark… Mar… Mark. Please, help me this is urgent.”
“Stacy,” I looked her in her right eye.
“Shut the fuck up.” I could hear her choking and gargling her throat and I looked at her with a slanted eye.
“Oh god. Oh god.” she cried, facing her back towards me. Stacy sprinted towards John’s house in fear, climbed up his front porch, leaned over the rail, and vomited violently into the dead black bushes that wilted unevenly around his home.  Something was obviously wrong, yet I still could not recognize the severity of the situation, or what somebody else may consider severe.  At this point, I had walked from the sidewalk to climb up his porch, as Stacy had done.  I stepped away from her wasted undernourished body and the fetid malodor of the vomit that continuously poured from her throat.  I walked through the threshold of the open doorway and tripped on the poorly installed carpet that surrounded his “living room.”
“Wow… how do you guys live in this shit hole?” I asked Stacy. She was still vomiting. I wanted to laugh at her, but I knew that after a delirious overdose (which I believed this was) she would have passed out by now. In what daylight shone through the apocalyptic haze blanketing the town, I saw John’s old ripped jeans lying on the floor, connected to the aging skateboard shoes he was sporting every time I saw him.  I rubbed my hand against the rough, dirty drywall until I found a plastic switch.  I paused for a moment, wondering what horrors I might be exposed to with the simple flick of a switch, and hesitantly turned the light on.  John’s dry corpse lay in the middle of his living room halfway under a rotting table in front of his torn leather couch.  I walked two steps closer, and stared down at John’s body.  The floor around him was littered with a bloody needle, a tube, a spoon, and what looked like his drug of choice scattered all over the carpet.  “Fucking retards,” I said to myself, softly kicking the evidence around the body. I could hear the cries and screams outside from Stacy.  I was quickly growing tired of the ugly masculine yelling coming from outside I flipped my body around and faced the door.  I poked my head out of the doorway.  “Stacy! Would you shut the fuck up! Jesus Christ the fucking cops could come any minute now and you’re screaming like a little fucking pussy! Shut the fuck up you stupid fucking cunt! Get in the house!”  Stacy lowered her voice to a nearly silent whisper, slowly dragging her feet across the cold carpet.  She sat down on the couch and put her face in her palms, weeping uncontrollably.  “God… dammit Stacy! You two are the stupidest fucks on this planet, I swear to Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Mark I don’t know what to do. He’s dead,” she said, shakily sipping from a blue cup that must have been filled with some kind of alcohol.
“Alright, listen.” I looked Stacy dead in her eyes for a few seconds, and then began to pace the floor around John’s carcass.  “I’m going to run in the back and get rid of his shit.  Every bit of it’s traceable.  I want you to get the fuck out of here and forget this ever happened.  Go home and forget.  Don’t call John’s mother, don’t call your mother, don’t call the police, and don’t call anyone.  And don’t you ever fucking tell anyone that I was here.”  Stacy removed herself from the couch and walked slowly out to her car.  I felt as if I was having a normal reaction to this death, just as I did to my father’s. It wasn’t too strange, seeing a lifeless body strewn out like a rag doll. I felt myself grinning a bit. John was the last person I actually gave a shit about. He constantly asked me for rides, he always overcharged for the goods, or used mine if he didn’t have any. John was an asshole, and he deserved to die. If anything, his death signifies the growth of society. I sighed yet again and kicked his head. It shook a strange way and I found it incredibly amusing. After kicking his empty body, I looked through the window and saw Stacy pushing her head against her car door and screaming once again.  “God dammit… Stacy! Leave! Now!” Stacy flung her car door open, sat down inside her seat, and I turned away.  Realizing this was a moment of opportunity for myself I ran into John’s room and looked through his drawers.  “Come on, come on, it’s got to be here somewhere.”  I ripped his mattress from his bedframe and saw two small bags filled with white powder, and one with yellow powder.  Each bag was probably about an eighth of an ounce at most, and I was slightly disappointed.  “Dammit. Well, it’s better than nothing.” I peeled the white bags from the bedframe and put them in my pants as quickly as I could.  Running out of John’s room and through his threshold I realized Stacy was still in her car.  I couldn’t coach Stacy anymore. I was wasting my time trying to calm her down and keep her out of trouble. She fucked up and so did he. I was sick of doing things for people without thanks or pay. Stacy can take what she gets she probably deserves it. “Christ… You know what, fuck her.” I said, after already having made a decision in my head.  I sprinted to my car, and pulled the door open as quickly as I possibly could.  My shaking hands struggling to insert the key into the ignition, I realized my luck in the situation.  A long smile grew across my face as I turned the ignition, pulled my car into drive, and slowly rolled away.  I began to laugh as I felt the bags surely filled with cocaine tucked neatly into my pants.  My hands caressed the old white shirt I was wearing. I always wore these thin white shirts because I thought they showed off my pectorals. I hadn’t worked out too much in my life, but I figured that I would at least try and show off what I have. Why should I even have to show it off anyway? Women should crucify themselves for a chance to be with me. I can’t stand knowing that John had a better chance with most women just because he doesn’t know how to leave anyone alone. “Persistence they say, that’s the key… that’s the key… persistence.” I wondered aloud how this could be. Persistence in my mind was being bothered to the point of murderous intent, as many of my friends often had done. My train of thought always continued until I had no idea where I had started.
My car bounced its way all the way to my house with a horrible squealing coming from my engine.  For just a second, one second, slow, barely squeezing itself into time… the music stopped, the noise from my car stopped, I stopped smiling, my heart dropped.  Then, from nowhere, I heard the snare and double bass explode from the drums wailing from my speakers, my heart shattered, and my eyes opened wide, as did my smile.  “Fuck yeah!” I screamed as loud as I could, pulling down Acorn Ave, I realized that I would be safe, and my mind was completely elated.  My mind felt better than it had in a good while, as if it had been healed.  I knew that I wouldn’t have to deal with drug dealers for at least a week or two, which was nice, but the thought of dealing with new ones was an annoyance.  I hated drug dealers, and though I had been a drug dealer myself, I found them to be the most bothersome, disgusting, scum of the earth.
Trying to ignore these thoughts as best I could, I danced out of my car and skipped across the street towards my house, the bags of cocaine still protruding from underneath my pants.  I walked down the cold path, my feet so hot with excitement; I melted the snow beneath them.  I ripped the door open once again with a half grin on my face, and instantly felt another rush of warmth, healing my dried brittle face.  I used the term “half grin” to describe the way I smiled. For some reason, whatever the type of happiness I was feeling, only one side of my mouth would curve upwards. Half grinning, I flicked the light on, and turned my head into the living room.  My smile instantly dissipated as I saw my mother consumed within herself, crying hysterically.
“Ma…” I said.  My mother’s hands were covering her face, her body jerked up and down, tears streaming in between her fingers.  I had never seen her so upset in all of my life. “Ma… What’s wrong Ma?” She sniffled, trying to hold back her squeals:
“He… he hit me.”
“Who hit you Ma?  Who the fuck hit you?”
“Greg hit me.  He hit me a hundred times.”  I knew that Greg hit her; I’m not even completely sure why I asked. She had been with Greg for years now, and he’s never stopped drinking, or screaming at my mother. But Greg had never hit my mother, not until now. I had been eagerly awaiting an excuse to beat Greg until he’s dead, and now I had one.
“Ma I’m going to his house.”  Ma didn’t say anything, a signal to me that what I was doing was fine with her.  I ran up to my room, and carefully pulled the bags of cocaine out of my pants. Fortunately, the bags did not break; sparing me the pain of losing something I felt I had won. It was mine after all. John shouldn’t have done what he did, but after all it’s not like it wasn’t expected. I found the coke and it was mine. I couldn’t make up my mind, it was like some morally right therapist was bitching at me and for a brief moment of time I pondered whether I should even use the cocaine or if I should even go to Greg’s house. All the while, I shook some cocaine out of its bag into a small mound onto the desk before me. I pressed my driver’s license down and chopped the cocaine up until it was ready to be shifted into a solid line. I pressed my nose down to the desk and inhaled.
At first, I did not really feel anything. However, about twenty seconds after that my throat became incredibly numb and a feeling similar to an adrenaline rush captured my consciousness. “Oh.” I grunted, moving about the room in random pacing motions. “I’m gonna fucking kill that guy! I’ll kill him!” I picked the bag of cocaine up from its bottom and put it in another bag that was conveniently sitting inside my desk drawer. This, of course, was a bag that I had used for drugs before, and will most likely use for drugs again. My room had always been a haven for drug abuse. Where not only myself but friends and even drug dealers on some occasions would come to test the product. My room had a warm and comforting feeling about it while the world surrounding it was grey and melancholic. Even with the feeling of being here, my anger still persisted. I reached under my bed and inhaled a cloud of dust, experiencing the most uncomfortable feeling I had in a while. I obviously wasn’t supposed to be breathing in the dust, so I usually kept my distance. I should’ve known under my bed, my bed there would be dust. I lived in the most disgusting environment that many would call borderline homelessness. I wanted to vomit, but momentarily slowing my breathing seemed to help.
I grabbed my baseball bat from underneath my bed and gripped the hard rubber handle as tight as I possibly could. My hands felt like scissors. I knew if I gripped hard enough that I could break this bat in two with none but a simple squeeze. I spared the bat for then, as I knew it would be necessary for the task I had ahead of me. I stood up and shook off the dust that evenly coated my hairline. After checking my face in the mirror for a good hour as it felt, probably ten minutes in reality, I opened my door. My mother was still whimpering downstairs. Her weak and powerless cries gave me a sense of power. This was a strange feel for me. I usually laugh or at least feel some kind of swoon at least from the pain of others. I love to see tears; I love to know that people are being torn apart on the inside, even funnier on the outside. I especially loved to see women hurt. Those lazy neatly packaged pieces of shit were only good for one thing. I knew I was right. I knew women were pieces of shit, and that wasn’t going to change… but I didn’t hate my mother. She was just like them all, a worthless skank. Hell, if she weren’t my mother, I’d love to see her kill herself. However, this woman raised me; she cared for me when nobody else did. I had a lack of a role model to look up to my entire life, and that’s where she failed as a mother. But through all of the love I felt for my mother, I still thought she was stupid and useless; she probably deserved to be hit. Nevertheless, I knew that she was family and I had to do what was right.
“Hey Ma… Ma… you hear me?” I said from the top of the staircase. Ma didn’t answer, she couldn’t. Her choking sorrow was clogging her throat, preventing her to speak. “Ma, I’m going to Greg’s,” again, no answer. I ran down the stairs and out of the door.

-untitled- (poem)

Layers of skin are peeling away…
but the new skin just looks all the same.

In the dark, I watch him tie…
the sheet from which my body will die.

Tangled in black strands of thick cloth…
I try to imagine what’s gained and what’s lost.

This demon of mine, what he wants, I don’t know…
he thinks I can only be happy alone.

Repeating again, that new skin is the same…
I question if happiness is truly in vein.

A constant struggle for attention, I cry…
protected by dark, so cleverly disguised.

My heart, still beating, the only thing I despise.

The Forest (poem)

No matter when or where, I’m always alone

when I pull my car up to the side of the road.

I step out, clasping cold metal and broken glass

my black boots crunching the frozen black grass.

I take a look to my left, in the black and white woods

exposing the world, without all the good.

I take a walk down the path crafted from shattered dreams

each step polluting the air with a thousand screams.

The trees let go of their bright white frond

reducing to black, as they sink in the pond.

The water’s cold and lifeless, emotions are grim

if I had something to lose, then I’d go for a swim.

Just to stay dry, I keep on the trail

and wait for every chance I get to exhale.

It’s the only point of relief in this desolate place…

holding a hood over my head, and hands over my face.

I ensue for some time, feet moving with technique

Until I notice her familiar dark physique.

I stare at her pale face, as she’s shaking her head

flooding my brain with inexhaustible dread.

I don’t say a thing, and neither does she

With unspoken feelings, we silently agree.

The solution will never be found

the only problem is me.