I wish I got along with myself better, they called the cops and the bull dropped its charge


It was surreal how the shit stayed at large, or how the very sight of bright colors gave me a flashback


To a time when I had unflinching hope and my sins could be cleaned with a brush and soap




Simplicity is to complex, my endeavor will have a conclusion like hot sex


I was born with a trigger on my back, I moved it to my head, if you come for me make sure I’m dead


My philosophy is an archetype, the neo-noir type for the dismal in distress


I’m the little bitch in a red dress


I have so many good qualities for a cow, my farm is blessed


Milk me for thought, slaughter me for a few meals worth of meat, then Temple GRANDIN could be reborn to make my defeat more humane




If this is the end, when did it begin?


I sleep all day, its neither work nor play, its suicidal decay


I’ve got a lust for redemption, I get hot when I smell blood, I was raised from the mud as a scavenger. I don’t care, ill bite you, I was born to lose, the day I die I’ll win. Maybe that day, happiness will begin


I cut myself, spit and write, I’ll ignore umbrage,  your sophisticated words, because I want to fucking fight




Addiction to synesis, philanthropic as the crusades were, compared to my slow burning melancholia. Eat up any road block, to later regurgitate a modern day piece of art, while you fornicate I’ll root for you to precipitate something, because there is riot going on, things are going to fucking explode! So before our hate implodes, we need for you to create offspring.


The End is nigh, call up and cry, as all hopes die, apocalypse now, the streets have been stained with blood for so long, vermin are born from mud

The Ballad of Johnny Handsome

He screamed as the answer to her wishes couldve never been forseen, it was the birth of a dream. Jonathan Clement, the beautiful boy, was his moms shining moment. She wanted to pray but she couldnt think of anything else to say. With her baby in her hand she hovered in dreamland. Home was no paradise, it was as dark as a morbidly outrageous poem, as Johnny’s story was to collapse like rome. But her held her son, as her husband lurked in front of her with a loaded gun. Was he a bum or the shadow of a million suns, what captivated her scream was Johnnys beautiful gleam

They danced to The Clash, the old piggy banks were quickly replaced by a savings account stash. Things had changed, Johnny’s father the horribly deranged had departed and this new ray of hope allowed Johnnys mom to cope. Jim was his name, his face so dim and his clothes were on the administrative brim. The future forcasted acid rain but he kept Johnnys mom sane. Motivation advocated by education, led to a seaside vacation. This was the new sensation, haunted only by Johnnys new uncles indications. Vacation became a hobby, Johnny didnt miss the bland streets. Sand felt great on a eight year olds feet. He was oblivious to this pedophiles lie, he thought he was to old to cry because he didnt want to do it anymore, he wanted to die. Johnny Handsome was his uncles nickname, part of his sick game. As he held Johnny down he wanted to die, it lasted until eleven and he wanted to die. He’d seen the ocean, the Bahamas and cartoons but this pain came to soon.

Rebellion, just as Johnny predicted a riot. The violence was silent, the punishment was to quiet. The hallway had pollution, it was part of the principles solution, chaos was the name of this fuckin institution. There were sustained junkies in the bathroom who just took small 90 proof sips, chapped lips and kids sold tips to keep from taking a police station trip. It was just a teenage population seeking oppressive liberation. Then for Johnny came first love, he hovered like a Peace admiring the sky up above. She was Jan, they strolled through the park just never after dark. As they kissed they held each others hand, then came the pleasure that few felt in these United Lands. Johnny the goon who sank so low, to hurt to recognize a friend or a foe, had brought flour, butter, frosting and dough. Baking the cake would take an hour to finish, but the phone call was just a minute. The cake burned reminiscent to Johnnys fate. He wanted to rally poetry to get her. After a year, he never forgot her. Upset and unclear, Johnny drank ten warm beers. This was the product of his trauma’s fear, and all he owned was a tear

Blood game motherfucker, a young adult alternative that consisted of enforcing on greedy suckers. Johnnys life was a symphony like the laxative’s pergative. It was buy, sell and kill to live, he was twenty and he had no love to give. He did a bid, never had a kid, forgot the one person he loved and protected the dirt that he did. It came naturally, he insisted you had to die a few times to see. If Johnny didnt find the key, he simply would no longer be. Twist to the story, was a rat named Cory. He ducked and showed Johnny he didnt give a fuck. A snitch that he had to scratch like a itch. Brain beaten and in a psychotic state, this odd job could decide his fate. He prayed, but it was obviously twenty years to late.

He arrived at the scene, he tried to figure his life expectancy, but he didnt want to use mode or mean. He insisted on Median. To destroy your heart, soul and every single pole, this pain he carried wasnt his fault. The darkness in the cloud, no matter how loud was not his fault. He made it to the first floor, and he crept to the door. People blessed him with a sense of morality, but Johnny Handsome challanged it would cramp his individuality. But then his body lay lifeless, his head resting next to a puddle of old piss. For years Johnny Handsome held himself ransom, the prize would be new eyes. He had seen to much, lost the sensation of touch. There wasnt much to be said at the funeral, Johnny was finally dead. He was a stain to most, one of life’s banes. They discussed his deeds at the party, but only few understood what was true. Nobody had the right to judge after what he went through

Some Bullshit

I Like to…
Return the favor
I got god’s cell phone because i robbed an angel
Hand gestures that looks like a gun
I’m young, going on and on some nights like i’m fun
Is it me or has the tide turned
Feeling a little cold in here, chill gone down your spine
Rhymes becoming less sensitive
Trade morals for success
Those three words, aren’t in my head like they used to be
Crying about some bullshit, emotions on the rise
Tension all throughout the house
Teeth grinding and your fists clinched, bringing back the days with youthful death stares
Prophecies about your demise become an actual plan, praying on your hopes and fears in a religious institution

Feeling beat like their heat pressed to my temple on a cold winter day
Better rub some bengay on those joints because i’ve been stretching you thin
Hurting your pride, hurting you like a lovers lie
Talent, couldn’t have given to a worse guy
Standing breathless, knocked the wind out of the sentence, like a misplaced comma
Whining about some bullshit, getting involved in some drama
Petty thieves committing murder
Elevated my urine test, but now it’s time to step a little further

Survivor Art

You Made my life a crystal ball of confusion

I painted a portrait of an illusion, a raw throbbing contusion

Im a melodic disaster

This is my conclusion…

We Sing Along, but the notes are wrong, we sang along from night till dawn

These Drums, they make me so strong, it took so long to get this level to prove the world wrong

These Screams, ugly but pretty, id love to see mars but lets go see the city

In my incipience, they i implied i was rather fastidious

Describing a world so hideous, to a community near The HALL that seemed so oblivious

I had the propensity, to show serendipity, ugly in the light

Like the sound of a fight on a cold winter night, each analogical plight blasts out of sight

I showed pain that i had found a way to make things right, just keep singing along all through this winter night

The strings can be weak, but dont worry love that we can tweak

If its true love you seek, then we can climb this peak

Then it goes silent, the stillness of anticipation has a quality thats ultraviolent

We do this…to make peace with ourselves

Some of us have our own meaning of art, some strive to display that an end always has a start

So tonight, its our feet we tap, we are the generation of survivor art that makes beauty from crap

They say hate breeds hate, tonight the only sound is the symphony of finger snaps

We all sing out of tune, our spirits ascend all but to soon

This is the last line…we sit on young love’s lagoon, staring as the stars whisper to the moon



It’s to disregard all the nonsense because I realized I’m actually on this

Not on one, on two or way more than a few

Cooking up concoctions like stew and I’d blow you away right out of the blue

Don’t believe in yourself when I’m around

Don’t make a sound because I’m enjoying the silence

Depeche Mode getting violent and ripping apart the streets looking for consignment

Ripping apart my heart, staying non existent and insane because I can’t mind it

Acts of Children

I’m damaged tonight

This damage does hurt

I entertain the days

When hate had grace like passion but there are failures

And Where is my life, or the light?

It’s the lost love of children that define my plight


I’m sick of this shit

I’m falling further and further away from my love

I try to talk to her, but she pushes me away

I confess what I need to hear

Let me in don’t close the windows down

Where is my sight, that defines my life

It’s the trauma of children that’s persists in my life


She doesn’t love me, nor does she want to be with me

Those words stick to my fat cells

The facial expression tells all

The scary moment before I fall, my hearts stops in motion

I write these words with my hands numb

I open my mouth, and insert a gun

Where is the fight, that defined my life?
It’s the doom and the fear, that violate my rights


Where are you now, are you with someone else

Is this the end, is there no more

I’m poised yet so lively made up of everywhere

I sleep to forget the regret that’s winning now

I don’t understand your dislike, but there is one last fight

In my bones

I hate the grace of passion because passion leads to failure now

But where is the light, that lights up my life

Where is the fight, the defined the night

Where is the reason, we can make it right

It’s the acts of children that define my life

And it’s the lost love of children that define my plight