Most Likely the End (Unfortunately)

the haunting feverish nightmare of the American Dream that suppresses the almost sleeping mind in stereo waves and monotone. it collapses, heaving, and fills the air with its years of exhaled cigarette smoke. it burns the lungs and throat with the gases that fuel the industry which exists for a single goal. the idea that being better is the best, the king of waking dreams, filled with the inhospitable agony of a hundred million workers laboring to cram into the tail end of social darwinism, commands the attention of the people. it reads in plain white letters, from the trails of jets screaming ever onward to destination, destination, destination. the American Dream, hovering over the waters like some grey phantom of twilight, knife in its inexhaustible hand, and greed leaking from between its teeth. let there be light from a fire which burns tenaciously, to be born and play and commit life to a world of work and empty solitude in which no thought hasn't been created, all the same in separate fishbowls. the feet by which it is propelled are eighteen-wheelers, subsidized food and the black death of bread made from the hands of the starving. it is hoisted by the voiceless mass of idealists, dreamers and thinkers, but alas, they all turned bitter in the mouth of the beast, and it spat them to the floor where they must now hold, with arms lifted like hope and despair, its unsupportable weight as the downcast and dirty rejects of Manhattan diners and the farms of Nebraska. It despises what it thought could be so useful, so engrained in the fabric of time to elevate its presence into eternity, the tower of babel, forever wobbling on its throne of the next great power, power into the next age.

and you, so sweetly obscene now, hearing the words of a perverse mind, one which has walked into the trap in which the singular voice of the nation screams, out of many, one. one who has bitten the hand that feeds and feels the recoil of the citizens and been lashed thirty-nine times with the promise of a life worth living, if its done correctly. outlined in a book translated and forced to be whatever the power wants it to be. you, so beautiful, watched as it tears apart the veins in the bodies of men as they plead just to live on for one more golden day of suffering. the same fragile ears that never deserved to hear the palindrome of the beast's obsession with the balancing schedule of nose to the grindstone labor and reckless and impatient fun, have bore my shames and cross to the hill called pity where solitude is vacant and vapid, and the prospect of sadness is more real than the conscious realization of one's own heartbeat. 

to where can the beast take us? one more road of quiet indignation and backlash, seemingly friendly throughout each decade. smoke-filled eyes and hallways of hospitals packed with the fractured souls of the innocent in attempt to treat what little empathy and hope still exists in the meandering alleys of backwards America and the polar attraction of its people. they choked down thanksgiving dinner in front of a chandelier and grandma's smiling face and went back to their separate cities for another year of much-needed separation. it tears us apart even now, the Dream, the simple principles all working towards the systematic grinding of our bones once we have passed all the knowledge and waste we could in the spineless, suckered lives we were so foolishly given. it all ends on a bed or a ditch, drunk with the prospect of one more golden day of suffering, so that no man would ever have to experience the nothingness beyond life. so proud for the work of flat stomachs and perfect lungs, never giving credit to the things which brought the end so much more quickly.

and here it is, the end. simple and gratifying. no beast, just the mind of eternal wonder. and it is in this state that the mind wants to scream throughout the mouth, one last golden moment of suffering to leave to the living, to finally stick the knife in the heart of the beast, some words echoing through, and finally: "I wish I had someone to hold, oh I wish I had someone to hold!"

Reviews

[Cicera]

A very good command of language is sometimes what it takes to write. And the rest? Well the rest comes out flowing from the mind poetically. And I for the beauty and the strength of this writing like it. This is the type of writing that wants you to feel your breath, to hold and seize it in your hands. This is writing that asks you to take control, to think heartily.

[AMERICANWRITER]

VERY GOOD MY MAN! WHOEVER YOU ARE!