the freshman's confession

I drink to avoid sober people. I drink, so that the made up conversations turn into a blur, so the night turns into a quick blur. Its like reading a boring article, sooner or later you start skimming through the pages. Like wise, I drink because I anticipate the dull night ahead. I predict the same conversation, chit- chat, and random banter, the how are yous, what college did you go to, what did you study, o you know that person too, so do i... Drinking, thus, helps me fast forward through all of that, and filters out the, 'yea we should definitely do that.'

[i am often asked, why I drink?

I normally respond, o for the taste. drinking vodka excites the taste receptors of my palate. I don't know, I cough a lot and drinking clears my throat and loosens up my tonsils. I like when my stomach is burning?]

let that music ring, let that music ring, i says let that music ring.
let the vibrations travel down your back, let the strings sink in, let your soul replenish.
when did water taste this sweet, when did cold feel so pleasant?
the harmonica weeps and i hear it calming,
the storm is just about to settle,
and i hear his voice, so clearly so poignantly.
the wolf howls late in the evening, because the sun is setting
and there is no one to share the night with, the stars make him feel lonely,
separate from the world.
the high is dieing and the music fades with it.
complex thoughts seem simple and simple thoughts seem complex.
my reflection reappears and i exist again.
the accordion becomes feint and the notes separated.
suspense is replaced by anxiety and the words leave the page.
i think harder, i try again. i try to try again. i think to think again.
ambition returns or is it a sense of duty? a feeling of regret?
cause i regret nothing, not because my mind is set, but because i have nothing to regret.
the grass is greener on the other side, but where does the fence end?
the milk is churning and the potatoes rotting. the pancakes are soggy and the pigs stopped squealing.
i walk out onto the pier and step out onto the edge only to see that the water is not as deep as i thought.
the bridge lights outline its shape, just like my failure outlines my future. the night swallows my dreams and i sit here, without remorse, without glee, but with a blank stare. typing away at a screen that records my thoughts. because i will not remember the slightest bit of what i wrote. maybe i will, but i'll force myself to forget.

an old man once said to me that he knew the secret to freeze time, but he died before telling me. i wish i could go into the future. see how my life will turn out. see if i am happy. see if my parents are proud of me, not because I am their son, but because I am their son. I regret lying to my mom. i regret making her cry. i regret disappointing my father. i miss my dog hercules.

the moon shines on my back and i am at the cusp of complete darkness.

the sad song comes to end. men and women begin to applause, even though the artist was so depressed when singing this song. are songs meant to be clapped for? are they meant to be listened to?

taking your shitty rhymes and toss them to the pigs. take your thoughts and bury them in your heart. blow the whistle. let everyone know you are here.

you know how it goes, you have less than 5 seconds to grab a girls interest, and the rest of your life to hold onto it.

it's like a blue berry was stabbed and gutted by captain crunch. He took his pirate sword, waved it over his head a few times, and screamed the war cry, 'Die you FUCKING blueberry!,' and thrusted it straight into the the apex while jumping off the side and tearing the skin all the way down. the blueberry pulp poured out like guts falling like a mud slide. Of course Captain Crunch died, but that's not the point of the story. In fact, it's not the beginning, but the end. Sorry.

You see, several years ago in 2011, some time in Jul,y Mr. Allen attempted suicide by jumping infront of Pastor Randly's car fully exposed, who was, at the time, fucking his wife. but fate has its quirky moments and as Mr. Allen pulled down his pants he had a stroke and fell into comma for 20 months. Though Mr. Allen was pretty much a dead vegetable, he was still capable of thinking- his mind was functional.

Prisons discipline their 'bad' prisoners in

after, the formalities absolve and there is room to breathe- to move freely, without second thought. no more empty conversations that have no beginning or end, just a dull in between that settles in the stale air and drapery. dead air turns to a familiar silence and either or the other can forgo whatever silly pretenses carried into the bedroom and left on the floor besides the crumpled socks.

My words are vapor

like mist this note disperses

to scrambled letters

'Ahh yes!' a moments pause. The haggardly wizard with his pupils dilated to a creamy black, gazes deep into the cave, almost like a starving sage gazing at tangible truths or a sated beggar gazing at the cryptic stars, determined to expound whatever mysteries the universe has to tell him, like whether pluto feels as dejected as he does or if shooting stars are really spacecrafts for fallen angels, and with his cracked, dried lips the wizard echos, 'Some realize later than others and some never realize at all that never was it summer, but always late fall.'