Letters from the weird fiend.

When the fuck will I find some answers.

So I’m sitting here, bent over my computer, thinking. Thinking About all those big questions I seem to have been asking myself since I first left college. Who am I? Where am I going? And what the fuck am I going to do for the rest of my life?!? I know everyone battles with these questions at some point or another. I find myself begrudging my friends who seem to have everything planned out. University, career, house. Maybe a wife and kids. I cannot commit to plans like these. For starters, I cant afford university. Believe me, I’m not being ungrateful. I understand the opportunities I have here are far better than those I would be presented with in another country, say Africa or the poorer regions of Asia.

University is just one of those things I can’t have. To much pressing shit to pay for, you know? So my job prospects are limited in the things I would like to do. And what I would like to do is escape.

These plans I see people mapping in front of me, telling me about their degree, all the jobs they can apply for. Makes me angry. I don’t want to be stuck in some fucking office, doing the nine to five. I don’t want to be a shitkicker for the rest of my life.

I want to live. I want to serve a purpose greater than buying a new car, or going on holiday to fucking Bali.
I want to see the world. The real world. I want to see both the beauty and the horror of it.

I want to see Mogadishu. I want to swim in the amazon. I want to go to the West bank. I want to live on a razors edge. I believe that we feel most alive when we are closest to death. I do not wish for death, but neither do I fear it.
What I do fear is this state of stasis. The floating around like a hunk of shit, working, drinking, paying bills and working some more. There must be more to this than all that. There has to be.

My feet are itching
Itching to move.
Too long in one place can kill a man.
I’m Running fast into the breaking sun
each step launches me forward.
Each step carries me farther
Than I ever anticipated.
My muscles clench and tighten
Screaming with one thousand pains to come.
My lungs are burning
Courtesy of Marlboro red.

I breathe the fire out of my lungs,
And carry on.
The day is drawing late now
The shadows are growing long,
With every step the darkness creeps
As the owl begins his song.
My body grows heavy with every step
Every dull thud my feet makes
Is agony.
But I can’t stop.
I can’t ever stop.
Too long in one place can kill a man.

Fuck this Cunt of a Town

The road is calling
For my feet to cuff the dirt
My legs to run,
my heart to fly,
My scream to carry
To the starry sky.
The bubbling yearning
Holds my stomach to attention
Trapped in this little town
The festering rage sets in.
It scalds my throat
burns my eyes
And every day the anger grows.
Grows and grows.
Grinding teeth and white knuckles,
Venomous eyes, constant frown.
In three days,
I’ll set fire to the town.

My hollowed eyes saw shaded skies,

And a darkened road ahead,

I had no fear, no doubtful thought,

My limbs were heavy from battles fought.

My throat was hoarse, I made no sound,

I fell to my knees on the stoney ground.

I steeled my heart, and gnashed my teeth,

I drew my knife from out its sheath.

And I heard far off,

a tolling bell.

I was twenty steps from paradise,

And four small steps to hell.

I remembered visions,

What seemed like years ago,

As she laid outside,

In the falling snow.

Her tears had froze to crystal glass,

And cut her eyes to ribbons.

I passed, my eyes downcast,

My heart thundering with shame.

I had no words, no calming edict,

No inspired songs of hope

I struggled slowly onwards

Down the bloodied slippery slope.

Twenty steps from paradise,

When your legs are made of lead.

The most chronic fucking writer’s block.