Writer's block

As far as random thoughts go I am commotion and tumultuous.

I am lighters that I scribble the letters C U N T on, sharpie and black with a few spots missing.

I am me with a gleaming smile on my face, mouth slightly open, spitting blood onto the floor in front of oblivious on lookers who smile back and shake my hand and pass me tips. Down the side of my face, blood slides and fades into fades into stitching.

I am complex sentences with simple meanings, patched and twisted to form the illusion of depth and what's funny is that the possibility of depth is what I'm attracted to most.

I am shaking and filled to the brim but spilling over and missing pieces like some jigsaw puzzle you didn't put together fast enough but the pieces missing are dancing to some inaudible tune of their own to form a 3D masterpiece on the other side. The other side where the grass might be greener but who knows because it hasn't been mowed in days or months and whatever weeds are there are blossoming in the brightest shades of pink and blue.

So maybe the grass is pinker on the other side.

The other side is where I long to be, somewhere next to me, seeing me. A reflection of what I used to be. Hidden inside some cosmic catastrophe, where they have my tongue, canned and floating like the bio hazard trophy I ought to be. 

And what they do with my phalanges is up to interpretation. The ultimate result of self mutilation and when they force feed me ideals and presentations of what the norm and status quo should be while they consider my pros and cons and pencil me into the files they've set aside I'll let it slide.

A New Beginning. Leaving behind the Romantic Comedy.

She was the sin of complete and utter caring, the veil over my eyes and maybe my life, telling me that I needed to see it her way and feel it like this, trying to stick to the movie script of some back shelf cliché that no one ever wanted to watch anyway. And how could you ever succeed if you're trying to live up to hollywood standards and not creating your own path?

Never mind the ambient travel and the way it clouds your vision to the point that you think Christ has risen, essentially guiding you, perpetually hiding from you the directions you once held in your fragile disillusioned hands.

And in some twisted way she got inside of you to say, why not, to hell with it, someone once told me I could swear by it and so I did, long enough to dwell and then believe that we were meant to be.

But if you honestly think that I'd let it live inside me long enough to blind me from what reality, transitory it may be, had in store then dear God, you must be the biggest bore.

On the outside I could be cliche, another face to disappear in the crowds as any other disgrace and smooth out the wrinkles, spark the fires, trim the fray and hang my head low with shame. But on the inside I am some lone creature calling out for some greater meaning, just as the rest of us, but more so craving detachment from urban confines and jail cells dressed as pay stubs and warm smiles, regurgitated from what I had left after last night's rampage on the edge. 

On the inside, it's what counts, the desperate need to be and also be free. To genuinely mean it and not just smooth it out and hope that someone someday will send a glance that starts the wheels turning, something substantial that I could grasp, not so elusive as the concept itself but concrete and then one day...

One day I'll plant my feet and push against what society says society is and what rules go where measured up against the values of someone else's glamorous hollywood mutation.

And one day I'll draw from this a brilliant breath of inspiration with that gleaming look of concentration written in stone, upon my face, upon the means I have to erase the past and see.

The cliché would never suit me.