100 Hundred

The road to my heart has a 100 dents and pot holes, that the ominous thought police have restricted due to a time warp in the space time curriculum. Ya, that's right, study that stuff, because there's a test on the black hole theory, Doc Brown is gonna skool you in how to make a time bomb. I've only learned of this while flying back in time on my personal crazy plane. I built it using lost parts off of a broken Ferris Wheel.

True story. 

Don't believe me? 

Then think of it this way. If a true story wasn't false, but you believed it to be the truth, then it's a non-false non-unbelieved fact, which would only mean that the true falsehood of the one that was telling a lie, couldn't actually be making a joke, but be telling something that was unbelievable. In this case, I think riding on the wings of faith into the neverworld of disbelief could cause your mind to explode in a truth serum that would formulate the proper calculations of the honesty that was hiding in the back of your brain. Once again, this could be a falsehood of the truth telling that I've so clever hidden within the letters that your eyes are only now hearing. 

If you concentrate hard enough you'll see the gears shifting into high speed and the rotator discs fluctuate into ludicrous speed, because that's the cause of my writing. The nodes in my brain are on fire causing the  electrical pulses to stimulate my nonsensical unlogical metaphysical finger tips to punch down the corresponding letters in a rhythmic gesture in hopes of subduing your brain into a coma. If I can do that, then maybe I can run my own thoughts into the ground and bury them into a pile of dirt where they can't be telling anymore of their ridiculous long winded stories that it thinks are jokes, but don't cause laughter. I'm sick of that stuff. Same old knock knock joke where I never answered the door. So here I am, being completely unadulterated  and cynical for the sake of a poetic story that has no rhyme or for that matter an unreasoned logic.

My pure insanity can only be expressed in a combination of words that attempt to form a story of sentences that apparently have no end. Ah the end of a story, is the end of a sequence of additions, where the subtraction at the end only leaves you wanting to multiply your reasoning. But I refuse to do that. I will divide this until the infinite quadratic crapstorm of electrons has bombarded your ever expanding headache until your very pulse explodes in a forever retroactive insomnia, alluding to the final task that may never come; the final punctuation mark that my little brain monkey will fling at you. You can hope and dream that this ridiculously long and pointless rant about absolutes and emptiness ends without having any more mind boggling contradictions. HA! Never! If I only gave you a taste of the insanity from a functional incapable child you would pretend to never have thought outside of your lid, but I will show the inside of the box that has been flipped inside out. I'm a inside the box thinker that drew on the outside of the box. Words float around my head like birdies after being hit by a sledge hammer. They rain down into my bucket and I just pour them out onto the table and scatter them around until it makes me laugh. And here I sit, spitting untruths and half-lies about my presumptions about my sanity. Sanity sanity sanity, bah. Normalcy in place of democracy where the congress has no control of my pulses that electrify my synapses. I'm on fire for the electric world outside of my box. I learn to yern for the funky town equative fanatic word association contraptions that will allow me to continue to make up my own words while you try and figure out which words were real and which weren't. So here we sit, while the rest of us stand, looking down on a wandering squater, wondering where the lookie-loos will be crawling to run next. I hope it's soon, because my crazy talk is just about out of fire and I don't seem to care too much to even finish my final thou

Brain Sprinting

I'm running.
Fast. Quick. Swift. Agile.
The sweat is running wild,
crawling over my face and body,
getting caught in the wind.
My pores shut down and stop exerting themselves.
I'm in overdrive,
my body turns pale,
the blood is rushed to my legs
for the final sprint.
My breathing
exhausted, labored, steady, ready.
The force of the speed at which I run is daunting.
The goal appears in the distance.
The turmoil is and pain is extensive.
The damage is numbing.
The sweat has started again on my face.
It sprints to its' own goals.
I wake up to find my brain breathing heavily,
and tears on the pillow.
The goal is just within reach.
I got this.

Another turn...

Another turn to make a u-turn at a road that was a path that used to be less traveled has become my undoing. It's a path I've walked and ran, and sat and cried on that now has gum stains and rubber tracks. I've disappeared into a forest to make friends with nature, only to discover that Smokey isn't a bear, but a very large beaver with an abnormal tail. I'm searching for answers in a library filled with picture books when I'm color blind. The weirdness of the randomness that has happened in the sphere of awkward permeates through my hair follicles to my brain, only to distort the world around me. Beer goggles makes night vision sleepy. I can't function with the railroad spike in my chest, but I seem to be running wild with the swarm of bees in my skull. It's a funny thing that laughter happens when my nose hairs tickle, but breathing doesn't do it. I've mixed the chemicals wrong only to protect the concoction of a virus that has spread from my finger tips to my ears and back down my spine. Ah, what a glorious day it was when it might have happened the other day months ago, but the time king spit on me and broke the mirror and pissed on the greener grass. Damn you, you fool! I was going to mow it down and plant daisies there anyways, but my lawn mower broke and I can't find the right parts to get it going. Doesn't matter anyways, the neighbor moved and took all the dirt. So I'll just cover it up with duct tape, cement glue, plaster, clay, play-doh, silly putty, wood glue, elmer's glue, gorilla tape, scotch tape, sand, cement, construction paper, and then drop a giant metal door with a super lock combo so nobody can get to it. Because that was MY planter and nobody can't plant anything there anymore. But I'm not pouting. Nope, that would be stupid for me to pout for something that disappeared and wasn't mine to begin with. Nope. I'm making a claim of my personal fortune and future empire and standing on my mountain looking down on all the happy people as I stand there in the wind, like Peter Pan. Just... breathing. Admiring in jealousy and envy. I will never have everything that I can't have in the world of perfection because it's been shattered by the very rock that I tried to skip on the surface when I was a kid. Ah, my inner child just got lost in the mall and I'm debating if I want to find him or leave him for adoption. There's a strong possibility that his undying romantized hopefulness will one day disembark for eternity, where I would be stuck with an old man pretending that he didn't crap his pants because he doesn't want to be old. What a weird story to dictate to the nonexistent children that never spawned because I was too stubborn to acknowledge the rightfulness of my ways. Ah, to live and die in a realm of absolute ridiculously wired knots. I hate the love that burns my chest. Get me a glass of water, maybe that will calm the stitches. Good times indeed.

I write...

I write and I write and I wrong what I write because the right writing causes the wrong thoughts to betray my hands of fate. I exhaust my synapses and fuse out the shock treatment in order to continue with the thought process that had prolonged my end in the beginning? You follow? Cause I'm not leading. No more leading in the footsteps that I had created because my balance is off and I'll falter on the lava (which is actually the carpet, but don't tell mom). I'm figuratively possessed by the alterior exterior of my alternate demeanor which only created itself from the fabulous anterior of my posterior complex. I'm trying to forget the thoughts that can't be forgot and remembering the memories that had once staked claim in a small chamber. To dominate the place where existence is bleak isn't an accomplishment, but a curse. To see the end before the beginning starts, it's a worse fate than living the lie. To lie down in a lie only equates to the subatomic mass that once created life, but now lays dormant for all eternity. I dream of a dream that exists in a world created from hope. I hope for a solution to the problem that has caused the breathing to be unbalanced and the walking to be erratic. The game of silly walks causes my heart to break side ways and skip off a cliff. I missed the bullseye and it misses me. I dream of a hope that can once again blossoms into a rainbow of awesome, that won't wash away from fading. I exist only to be non-existent.

The retardation of a sober thought process.

WARNING: The following is, once again, something that my brain does from a scattered artistic perspective. Please allow me to brain vomit some random words in a completely random sequential order in hopes that you might follow. No, I'm not drunk nor do I do any brain altering "vitamins".

Where can I start when "Why I'm at the finish line?" is almost a ridiculous question. I never got to finish something that was partially started. Running a walking marathon on a unicycle at half speed would only make me lose to a one-legged snail race. Wait wait, allow me the opportunity to properly express the true sentimental nonsensical ravings of a completely ridiculous thought process that could possibly end up causing a run away sentence from actually ever getting to the sharpened point that it was attempting to establish in the beginning before the end happened. Too late. These rantings require the finesse of an angry gorilla with roid rage. Ah, the words of a poet that never existed is only compared to that of an artist with no hands to paint with, spitting curse words at a blank canvas in hopes that his spit will spray color for a blind man to see. It's most unfortunate to have to deal with the retardation of a broken heart valve, when the solution could cause extreme paralysis. The sweet sound of a trumpet blazes across the landscape with the hopes of someday becoming the buzz kill at a peace treaty conference. The ideas and theories that were previously expressed have hence been forgotten and are gradually making their way back to the forefront. Back stepping over the gravel with quick witted broken feet will only cause the other shoe to fall and make the fine pin point accuracy of the dagger dig in at a speed in which is unmeasurable. Quite understandable you see, because from this vantage point one could hypothesize that outcome from a very astute angle, or obtuse angle, no matter how acute she may seem. Ah the addition of a math equation in the depths of hell can only unite the confused confusion of faces that once donned the peaceful eyes of an irreplaceable artifact from a past that refuses to be forgotten. Only now will you see the growing strength of a tree that had never been cut down, but only prevented from sprouting leaves. The hour glass is a time bomb that broke going backwards. Rewinding the tape is not friendly, I prefer to fast forward to the end where the Cinderella story line takes a turn for the likable. I refuse to believe that the choices made in the galaxy of sadness can be mistaken as a tomb for the guilt that once lived. Ah, the thoughts and questions have arisen and the time has come for all dumb children to stop behaving like morons and grow up. A swift punch to the back of the head always straightened the Common Sense Coach. I write, once again, to propose a toast to the moments that were forgotten, the times that haven't been seen, and the gift that has yet to be opened. I toast to the thoughts that have been remembered and hated, the discombobulated thought patterns that have justified such randomness, and the fantastical notoriety that the magician has gained from screwing the surgery up. Will someone please clean up the peanut butter that seems to be stuck inside my chest? Why was someone eating a sandwich during the open chest transplant? Once again, I sit and pretend to write something that makes complete nonsense, only to be witnessed to the ongoings of a brain that doesn't stop. I'll high five that fingerless gloves so that they don't feel lonely later.

Giberishitty is fantastical nonsense

WARNING: The following may not make sense to people who are sober, or people who do some form of brain altering medication. But the following is written from a purely creative side of my brain where I don't require those adjustments.

Of course I would write something like this in a state of confusion when up is down and down is up and words don't compute in the proper metaphrases that my brain has comp-you-tated. I've always done as I will as I want, I will do, but never I should, or shouldn't. Because what the brain wants the brain feeds on. The lifeless corpse of words best fallen dead in the battle against thought and reason. Why would I have it any other way? I'm a brain who can't live under water unless there's a cliff to jump off. I pretend that the non-existance of a said historical algorithm can only collide with the electrons of the hyper-active self aware cells that run rampant amongst the thought buildings of yore. It's simple really, If I always did what I couldn't I'd have nothing to do but shouldn'ts. But I don't do what I should have done and will do and end up doing something complete doo doo, to be honest. So ifs and thens get in a battle of could and didn't, and it becomes a drawn out battle of words and numbers that mount up to a sizeable donation to insanity. I believe that the reincarnation of my lost hair follicles will come back to haunt me in dreams that will force me to remember where I had been and why I'm not there now. Licking stamps is an old tradition of suicidal torture that can only be undid if one was to play with marbles. If I had a dime for every penny that I had found, I would have had some cash to buy a better haircut. Unfortunately the hour glass is broken and seems to go on it's own accord, fast slow fast slow fast slow. I always yell for it to speed up to a slow stop so that I can get on teh right buss to crazy town. If I had only bought the right carborator I probably could have gotten my tricycle fixed so that I wouldn't be on the wrong train tracks trying to take off in a dual propeller plane. It's a ridiculously absurd scenario to wonder what the existence of my feeble attempts to correct wrongs would have led me in. Thinking leads to thoughts that shouldn't exist in the material realm. In a physical plane there are no pilots, just an off on switch for the auto pilot that has holes in it and was drunk once before. Drunk on stupidity and choices that Trebec said were wrong cause they were formed in the womb with questions. Figure it out he says, I just punch him in the face and say What is my fist in your mouth? Doubt washes me graciously as I sit up in my bathtub of mud and ex-foliate my ear drums. I like to hear the thoughts I think I thought I heard. I think it thinks that I thought I cared about the caring thoughts that thoroughly transpired during the thirty-frice force of the fifth dimension. It's a number in elbritronics. I've created a monster under my bed to fight the one in the closet. The try eating each other once the light has escaped my eye sight. I live in a world of thoughtless brain activity that continues to destroy my inner peaceful workings. My choices, my curses. Curses! Foiled in foil again by curse-ed thoughtless thoughts that have burned me alive at a steak on a barbeque. Yum! Good times await those that have finally found the piece they were looking for and didn't destroy the puzzle piece that they needed to complete their life. Oops, I did. Unfortunate, because I needed that piece to finish my life puzzle on time before the judge. Now I'm in a hole digging upwards to find sunlight to bless my face and clear my brain. Puzzle piece, oh puzzle piece, where fore art piece that was so quietly fanatical. You spoke silence until I was deaf. Next time yell your whispers so that my eyes can see them more clearly and this mornings issues aren't on the door step. Note to self: choices are made and consequences are lived with, but the clock keeps ticking up the seconds till better brightness.

And then poetry happened

You're in for a treat tonight kids, I have TWO blogs for you. Today at some point another one will happen. And before I continue, there was more I wanted to add to the last post. But continuing on with that one I felt my only bring forward more confessions from behind my new titanium walls, and I didn't feel it completely appropriate to confess more of my insides to the outside. Truth be told, it would probably only end up hurting myself and others to continue on with a discussion of emotions and feelings and all that silly nonsense that causes us to be weird and stupid and make mistakes and such things. Right... so... anyways...

I have a personal blog, where I can divulge all of the aforementioned humanity that I apparently have, and do a brain dump without others reading and judging and becoming hurt by it. Sometimes it's just a beration (to berate: I made it up) on myself. Well, if you haven't noticed yet, my blog titles tend to be half a sentence, or a couple of words. In June 2008 I was dealing with a ton of retarded stuff, life had taken a drastic turn to help build my initial walls. So here's a poetic tribute to those who were responsible. The only thing I'm adding is punctuation. I'll call it:

18 entries

Friggin spiders dreams.

It's not what you think

through a fog of confidence,

a vague memory of a dream.

Just sayin...

miss me?

Nightmares, my fav-or-ite...

retard feeling,

amazing.

It's easier,

dreams upon dreams,

numbered dreams.

Finally,

good bye my love.

Once again

I'm an idiot.

Not today...

hate.

I like it. It's an interesting conglomeration of vivid information. I especially like the last part. I'm sure there was more I wanted to add here, there always is. I guess I'll end with two songs that I've been enjoying a lot of lately:

Given up - Linkin Park

I need a doctor - Dr. Dre and Eminem

yep. The horizon better get bright quicker than slower, I'm getting impatient in the dark.