My shins ignite like pistons hitting the air/gas mixture in a combustion chamber,

I have been marching for too long,

The grey gravel beneath my unfortunate feet are accumulating the soot from this greasey pack of youth,

The men in the black masks keep shouting,

Left, they shout,

Right, then left again,

They take extra care when it's time to funnel us into our respective lifestyles,

Appearing like toll booths on an expressway,

Each archway is labeled,


A quick glance through the archway shows activity on the other side,

The path is paved,

Smiling parents are handing out certificates,

A fresh change of clothes,

There is excitement in the air,

Most of the kids seem happy,

Some are herded into engineering,

Some psychology,

Some mathematics,

A few brave one's choose defense,

But there is only one grey box,

That has no label,

There are no parents on the other side,

No clothes being issued,

The gravel path beyond it seems to strech on into oblivion,

I feel an unbelievable attraction to this grey box,

I allow my feet to guide me to its entrance,

Where it seems no line has ever been formed,

There is no one there to welcome me,

To hand me new clothes,

To shake my hand, congratulations,

It is so,



Once again I give into my desire,

To ease myself through the gate,

In disbelief that no one can stop me,

The men in black masks simply watching,

Guns at their side,


I have reached a sanctuary

I have all of this earth to myself

All of this life

I will leave no stone unturned, I say

That's when the archway closes behind me,

A single black mask struts out from the fortification,

With a stool and a revolver,

He places down the stool and the gun,

Looks at me,

And slowly walks back behind the archway,

Locking the door behind him,

The guards on top the booths have out their lawn chairs,

Eyes trained on me,



As if it's the start of a boxing match,

They're waiting for me break,

As they did,

When they let themselves die,

For their handshakes and certificates,








Author's Notes/Comments: 

I wrote this with a head cold so if it's weird that's probably why

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Nails That Stick Out



I don't fight the chains




Pull on the bars.


I don't try to tear through


the tape on my mouth


I Don't deny the nicotine in my throat


The more I speak


The more cancer I spread


The less conventional my clothes


the more claustrophobic


children's faces.


The more twisted my morals


The less civil society


The more obvious my tears


The more dull the sky


My mother she cries


She wishes I had been a doctor


To say that one can heal without medicine


Truly absurd I became






Is it too late to start over?


To amend my arrogance


To erase the faces I gave my feelings?


To be different was to be


the Death of all that stood above me


I'm thankful my execution will be televised


So the world can see this mistake




Silently - March 22, 2013

Chapter One


I am a new aquaintance that is yet to make a sound.

Yet to be understood, I show no feelings aloud.

When I depart from the public, go home to flee,

I feel the need to tease, to please my sanity.

Silently, I cry. Silently, I die. Silently, I try

to overcome my insanity; bridge over the pain in me.


You make me feel like an outcast just because I'm not like you.

Should I be like who? I'm sick of your complaining,

you're straining me, draining me of energy. Listen to me, please.

It's not you, it's me! My plea for individuality is wrong;

too long do I have to wait for acceptance; you'll never repent this.

Take my fist and bury it under the sand; my will in your hands.

I'm powerless against conformity. I'm just a deformity

on this tumor you call me. Free me of this disease,

I'm fucking begging, on me knees. Please, please,

make me who you want me to be. Tell me, please, what you want to see.

I don't care if it's not me. Make a new me. One you want to see.

Make me what you want to see.

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