DC (4-04-92 / NY)

Nightmares Can Get Quite Long

i'm down tonight, but everyone is safe,
from me overlooking
this operation,
from the view of the sharp
scalpel.
from the scaffolding,
i laughed, and
from my tear stained shirt
i cried.
and you felt the snow flake on your back.
thats what happens,
when we're too young
from the mess
too young
that tears get so cold.
the bracelet then seems to turn colder
44 degrees
it reaches its cold, tempting,
lustful, fury of pure eye-candy
for the gents
ladies
or kids.
either way, they're still clowns,
and i'm still a fool,
for ever,
ever,
thinking
that i'd be the kid,
having nightmares in the mosh pit.
that i'd be the boy,
having a girl,
a hand,
a heart to tease...
i'm in a band,
i can play that guitar,
that piece of crap,
that thing i call
my baby,
that guitar, who led me, with the 18 years of my life.
i've bled,
and i've loved that guitar,
only to realize
that it has been broken, since the month
i first got it.
my camaro, i love it.
the backseats, they've come a long way,
they were too judemental,
but damn,
they were steamy.
i'd realize 3 people would fit there comfortably on my 19th birthday,
but it'd be too hectic to write more details, because i was wasted,
and i was crying, laughing,
but still crying.
it was a hot night, the vodkas kept coming,
and i'd press my lips to
anything i see
with labels as 'Heineken,
Corona,
Budweiser
Sky.'
man, it felt like the perpetual state of insomnia.
yet, i was excastic.
i'm 19,
i work, but i'm a screw-up.
Gamestop fired me,
because discounts kept on pouring out,
in exchange for one-liners.
the stage would then get too big of a place to sing my heart out, because my voice was deep, sharp, and painful...
its pure beauty
but
my words, they're 3 dollars less...costing you 30 cents in total...
30 cents...the tax.
my words, they've lost the wars, along
with my girl,
my sunday nights,
the backseat.Everything lost the game.

the year, my oh my, it
went by so fast
and i'm never getting myself attached to that kind of mannerisms,
for it caused me mental disfigurations,
that would later on, cause myself to overdose,
on more,
more placebo.
well, i shall go on...
i'm 21 years old,
i'm 22,
24?
maybe 30.
i've lost my count with the years that passed by,
the dough kept coming,
the hustlers, they're running,
from the drug dealers,
street name 'the moderators'
but i just kept writing.
the monologues,
that defined Me, turned Shakespeare into a prissy author, because everyone...
everyone.
Everyone knew,
Juliet,
promised Romeo her heart,
knowing that Paris was too much of a prick to let her go.
but hey,1400 came to be
a haunting memory for English noble men like him.
if only i was.
i'd see my name in lights,
then i'd be the pin-up,
with my own showgirl
showing everyone, the true
tale of the American dream.
i'm 28...i've seen my crypt, filled with pictures,
then my birth certificate, it proved that i'm 28,
if it didn't
mathematics would fail me.
i'm 28,
close to 29, close to 30,
but 28 is the lucky number.
i'm dying, though.
'thee bravest of souls reached the top of the basket-filled
auras, whom thy thought would thee yonder eastern wind, cast
thy spell on ones soulful heart.'
Shakespeare, taught me quite well, i shall exclaim, for
i am lying,
morosely,
on my couch...thinking,
that it would turn into my casket, because i'm 28 years of age,
but i'm slowly,
breathing,
slowly, sleeping,
steadily, writing.
is it lying? or laying?
i'm not a philanthropist, to answer that crappy question.
i'd just might as well, go to bed, and burry my mind, deep.
its been years, the heart attack cut me deeper, than i expected it to be...
i overlooked it too far again, i'm now 30, its been 15 years, since i overlooked situations from the view of the scalpel.
i've written too much,
sang too much,
loved too little,
loved less,
'broke it' too many a times,
broken my camaro,
lit my guitar on fire, my love, my baby, my poison,
to go downtown for the kill.
the nurses wonder
'what the hell is that stupid kid doing in the ICU? '
well,
alcohol, let them know the answer.
weed, tell them the truth.
smoking, let them huff more, than they can ever huff,
so they'd feel the pressure, and the needles killing your skin
in the ICU of a crappy hospital, where anyone, everyone could
i say,
care less.
because no one ever cares, you know?
no one.
i can't breathe...
sorry to disappoint, but
i'm dying.
no,
i'm not lying,
i'm not laying,
i'm dying.
my dream, its coming true.
i'd see,
the hands of a broken down writer,
a crappy guitar player,
a lover,
a teenager,
a kid,
a boy...
who spread poetry
like wildfire,
like cancer, just like plague.
it goes flat...everything goes flat...
until
i'd realize...i've been living a nightmare,

hey kid, i'm 15
still, i'm up in the scaffolds of this building,
and i'm still crying...
everyone has it bad, worse,
anyone can dream big.
watch your back,
snowflakes...they kill.
life, its too big,
too precious,
too lovely...
watch your backs, dearest,
snowflakes...they really,
kill.

User Rating: 5,0 / 5 ( 2 votes ) 2

Comments (2)

The poetic in you makes this piece remakable ever.keep the pen down bro.
Highest marks. This is incredible. You sure you're only 15? ? My God. Astounding work! sjg