Word Vomit

I feel like I am standing on the edge of a cubicle world 

And the timeline of civilization is running under my toes like a movie 

And when graduation comes into the frame 

It only reads "up to you"

"Up to you"

And I think that's what scares me most 

No matter how my life turns out it will always be only my fault and nobody else's

And that kind of pressure is enough to make the world turn round again 

The only thing about round

Is it never starts or stops 

Which means lots of time for decisions 

Lots of time for revisions 

Time is a one way deal 

And once you give it away you can never take it back

I'd say I spent my savings well on the past few years 

I'd say I made an investment 

I wouldn't trade the people 

The dances

The teachers

The classes 

Anything 

I wouldn't even trade it for a beard like Kyle and a mind like Anis 

Because sure writing is great 

And it's always there when you need it 

But the acting of the stories you tell are what really matter 

The adventures and monotonous Netflix marathons 

Whatever you do 

Do it well

And with a purpose 

Act deliberately 

---------------------


I hope at least one of you will miss me as bad as I'll miss all of you

I hope I helped at least one person

I hope 

Oh How Subjective The Wrists and Minds of Men

Existence, subject to time and reason

Never to influence another 

But through some off shot memory

So trivial is the exploration of its meaning and significances

But how sweet its indulgences

When one can free a mind from its dictates

Ensnarled by the minutes and passing moments

Can I not yet realize the time ahead?

Or does my feeble mind choose instead

To focus its talents on that which is present and certain

Even if only for a fleeting moment at a time

For each passing experience 

Is subjective to its ancestors 

And do not exist until the moment they do

And the moment after their fore bearers, cease to

If living by each transpiring twitch of the hand

Will comprise my life

I choose instead

To rid myself of awareness

And so too the leather chains on my wrists 

Adorned with circles of gold and silver

Only to prey on mans predispositions

To become enthralled 

In the trivial 

 

Reagan The Curtis

To be completely honest I have unwarranted prejudices against your blog
I just remember your posts and slams being happy
And as a teenage boy that wasn't ok
Where was the sadness, the anger, the resentment?
And now that I have more thoroughly assessed your blog I see its beauty
The magnificence in your continuous positive outlook is what makes this gold
Along with the stellar imagery you have in each poem, its amazing

Although I just spoke my adoration about the constant positivity I would like to see a bit of variation
I mean once you find a good style for yourself its gold, so don't stop
But it never hurts to experiment around
I would love to see your capabilities in other tones of writing

Your work has mad flow, its clean plumbing
Reading your pieces there weren't ever times when I thought
"ooooh that a rough verse" or "this needs revision"
It's easy to tell that you put a lot of work into your writing, and that's awesome

I love that you make this blog your own
I can tell the writing is you
It matches your persona and temperament so well, well done

The metaphors you conjure are on point
I love how some are a little far fetched too, just adds to the depth
My only critique would be to perhaps diversify your vocabulary a bit
I have always loved words and maybe you will too
Maybe you won't
Sometimes simplicity is just as powerful




Favorite lines: "Like a six minute silent phone call is everything and nothing all at once and nothing is worth everything so long as someone else will appreciate the static with you"

"Paperweights are supposed to get along with gravity
And physics never quite applied at 18"

"I forgot about the sun"
That one is my all time favorite


I hope some of this was useful
I hope none of this will be taken negatively or offensively because your blog is awesome
I love your background
Keep on writing for you and do your own style

It's what you do best

Video.

THE ROAD

The post apocalyptic ash runs down my shower curtain

Staining the undersides of my toenails 

And through the holes in my footwear I am reminded of the end of posterity 

Familial bonds decayed from disinterest and egotism 

I condemn myself 

I condemn myself

I create myself 

I condemn myself 

Walking and breathing

Then stoping and heaving

Falling and leaning 

Only to wipe away my face;

Streaming

Bonded by our pinky fingers 

We forged a bond that could only be broken by the final temptress

The black veil

And she came far too early 

Taking you slowly she taunts my dried eyes 

I tuck the white handkerchief away

Not yet 

The washcloth tied around my Adam's apple isn't much more than empty promises 

I broke the small ones

And the big ones caved that much easier

Apologies reverberate in my skull 

But easily deflect of yours

And the sharp edges are sending the mash-up out my ears 

It's no wonder hearing evades me 

Trees won't fall on you unless you let them 

That's just the statistics

But if they do, you'll see the eulogy of the passers by 

Etched into their bark 

And I am hoping I'll find yours 

Reading;

"Walk to stay away, stay away from the ranks of the breathing dead"

And so my feet bleed 

But at least I am not only breathing 

-Special thanks to Cormac McCarthy for the basis and title of this poem. 

Entreatment.

New life is introduced in floral prints and grammatical marks of inquiry 

Engulfed in uncertainty, denial, but mostly estrangement to prior constancies 

My limbs transcend the barriers placed by the stigmas my own mind has conjured

It's sweet and fast 

Like blowing out dead dandelion heads

And the final seed is always left for the second burst of wind from my lips

It serves to remind me of every job left half done 

Every job where "thorough" and "detail" were left on the couch 

It's silent, however the fingers puzzling across my skull

Are leaving a trail behind as treacherous as Sherman's March to the sea 

And when I look it the mirror the lines inter-tangle and wrap around each other

To form the eerie shape of a mouth

Crooked and cracked 

And with every furrow of my confused brow

It seems to utter the words "trust me" 

Trust me it says 

Trust me 

Investing such emotion into my own cognitive processes is uncertain 

And something I rarely do

But maybe this time I can do it

Because she told me to 

I

What I Want

Ubiquity in two minds that fit like nails in wood

Irrevocably close 

Constancy in the surrounding population

Like train schedules 

This train station is covered in IOU'S 

Signed with borrowed pencils

And even if you took them down their radiation shadow would remain

This environment is toxic 

Coughing up raspberries, like jam is being rationed

My raw throat wants companionship 

And so do my arms 

The floor is lined with spoons 

And the mirrors are replaced with them too 

That way it won't matter what we look like

Because we won't be able to tell

I know I look like a human being and so does 

Everyone 

Else

Everyone

Else

Serenity in acquaintanceship

And self worth to match the filters on all our posts 

I think we all need a heavy dose of rationality 

The way we tattoo status on our foreheads 

Is enough to make the neighboring states wonder how we are surviving 

Truly I don't think we are 

Perception

 

Greeted by serenity, we exchange feet

Sublimation walks into my person

And I let him occupy

The mountains personify me

"Living" they analyze 

And hanging upside down I smile back at them 

From ten feet up

"Different" they whisper 

"This one sees with its limbs" they conject  

Pouring from my ears 

Blades of grass lye beneath me

Encircling it 

Cushioned crater 

Carpenter's cutout

And the hands that made it, omniscient 

And at the other end sits a crouched figure 

Or standing

Depending on the figure 

Floating down or falling 

Indistinguishable now

Figure proclaims its presence

Then wets my completion 

We spar our way to supper

And at night he tells me of the other side

And how I'd like to go there

It seems

Certain 

Perfect.

Every drop that fills your frame 

Is exquisite, and ostracizes my limbs into shame 

The curls in your hair, on the end of your toes

And the freckles slipping down the tip of your nose 

Create a race so rapid and quick 

Often my fingertips need awakening from a needle prick

I'd like to ask you about foreign countries and constellations 

Or perhaps we may critique facial expressions then plan a vacation

To places in mentality of lasting significance 

Like self-actualization or cherished times of remembrance  

I bet you'd smile when your sad just to spite the tears 

I'm sure you scoff and laugh at your childhood fears

And replace them with things that may not exist

But their relevancy to you is enough for my help to enlist

In the salvation of your fingers and tender mind

Darling, there aren't many left to of your kind 

Above any aspiration or beautifully lit dawn 

I wish to see you without makeup on

Then I'd hope and pray 

That I would have the nerve to say

Darling you look the best today

11•2•14 2•25•15

Today was supposed to be another day

And how I have made it this far, I can't say

Tiptoeing shoes are still far too loud

I'd really like to be someplace else, perhaps dreaming in a cloud

And today is grey inside and out, Amy I know it's  just for you

Whether kicking or crying, I know you'll make it through

We don't understand why and most never will

But a precious, tender heart, is something never to kill

For Terik, and Hunter, and all the ones still here

I love you, I need you, now life without you, is the only thing I fear

Passive Repressive

Tightly sewn between words spilt from your mouth

And the ones kept dormant with doses of fear

My perspective about the whisperings has been condemned 

The way the eagerness left my spine and slipped out the cracks in my heels has left my jawbones an eerie muted shade of purple 

Interwoven with swelling cyanotic veins I can feel my mouth locking shut

And I let the television characters carry the conversation 

It's quiet

Selma (Freedom assembly post)

Her name was Selma
And she wore 1965 on the INSIDE of her sleeve
Tucked away from the view of the outsiders
But all the locals knew the old patch well enough
Each stitch was stained with their own blood

And Martin Junior loved her so very dearly
But when her father became too handy with the switch
He knew the only place for him was fifty miles down the road

At night, he dreamed of parades
Full of reds and Browns...

Yellows


And dark purples



Bruises and blood puddles
But come morning, he found the papers had published his midnight thoughts
Determined to let the whole world know his thoughts
He made his mind into a printing press
And he slept twelve hours every night

He dreamed dreams of smoke and shields
Guns and guards
But also of pens and paper
With presidential seals as their rosy red cheeks

As the printers ran dry
His vocals became his forefront
And one day, Martin Luther told all of Washington about his dreams
And as the accolades and awareness grew
The resistance become more fierce
Until the day it layed him down cold

But I hear even in heaven, they have telephones
And I'll bet the first thing he did, was give old Selma a call
And tell her about his dream last night
I would bet they talked about how "men like him" didn't fit anymore
And I'll bet he used his every last quarter on that machine

As phone wires turn into cell signals
And marches turn into drives
Our midnight experiences remain unchanged and unhindered
Do not take for granted that which comes in the unconscious

But instead
See what you can do
When you have a dream

Homage.

From behind the window of your cigarette butts
It's hard to focus on the pain
Focus on the pain
Focus on the pain
Focus on the pain

It's so incredibly difficult to place an I.V.
When you have got me waking like this
So please, leave me alone for two minutes
And I can help you for thirty

It's been nearly three months
Too long for anyone to be gone
And three months is most certainly not long enough to build a shrine
Or anything worthy of what he was  IS
Go ahead and try
It will crumble out of self pity

The surrealism fogs my mind
I can vaguely see my clouded judgement
Constructing a casket of its own
Soon to be layed down
The wood is a dark red
The color my fingers turn when I hold on for too long

Absent greetings and shallow eyes compose my state of being
Someone please bring a shovel
And dig out my heart, lungs, and mind, so I will know they are still there
Because I think they died when he did



Forever in my thoughts and heart
11.2.14

Evolution of Living Circumstances

The empty thought processes became apparent on the crippled wallpaper

Floral designs suffocated with the anxieties of tapioca minds

The consistency of the air became more like bark

Impenetrable from the years of acclimation

The incessant barrage of hatred and malice that ripped through it 

Eventually became the backbone of the intangible 

Carpet lays beneath the inordinate amount of stalagmites 

The ferocity of the bleak emotions perspires and collects on the already moldy ceilings

And passing through the V-shaped walkways 

One can hear the tension of the rock tombs

Wherein lye the aspirations of the young children who used to run in their place 

Crevices emancipate the ancient workmanship of doorways

The rudimentary invention of pivoting portals have fallen

Far more difficult entrances entrance the eyes of wandering adolescents 

But for those who venture to believe the welcoming nature of such vicious openings

They soon rest at he threshold of what could have been 

And for the ones who have yet realized the danger of change and transcendence between realms of comfort

And those of animosity 

Clean feet remain on the opposite side of the bloody walkways

Containment cells take the place of areas once deemed bedrooms

Decorated with the nightmares of its prior inhabitants

The very paint dances upon the edge of the conscious of those that enter

Fallen leaves ferment in the excretions of failed ambitions 

Alongside the rotting self confidence of twelve year old girls

The odor created intoxicates the most trained minds

And in a state of nausea and euphoria it's victims lye in a pool of disappointment 

Given so graciously by their fathers and brothers 

Toothbrushes trace the eating habits of the family inside as the comfort calcified food crushers 

And sadly find no place to go as the pantry wains 

Pillows become replaced by books

No time during the day to study, evokes a disparity to learn 

Instead the hours of daylight are spent barricading defenseless lungs and hearts  

And in hopes of education, feeble minds attempt to soak up knowledge during slumber

The ideal location of inhabitation is perhaps on the other side of grocery store receipts

Or adoption papers

Perhaps even the echoes of a jury's convictive consensus 

For now one must make do with beaten sandals and cans of food claimed by botulism 

Family Death

It seems the delirious minds try to assert themselves the most

Like the way dying car engines work herder to stay alive

Inevitably they die just like her feeble mind will

Right now I can't say if I would be sad about that 

Or if my innards would turn 

In the same manner as my head

Away from the scene

Pushing broken wheels only works for so long

As the spokes pierce the ground 

Leaving a trail of spite

And the splinters await innocent feet to prick

But my children will not know her 

They will not know her bleak existence

Nor will I

Not after another day of giving up

All a child wants is to be craved

In the same manner plants demand light

Unfortunately a dismal existence has been mine

Void of emotional support

Lacking in the very acknowledgment of my presence 

And the only cravings in my parents bedroom

Is wealth and weight loss

Scales become useless to eyes trained for trimming

And crying voices from the kitchen 

Take a back seat to the hands creating new belt holes

There is a family somewhere dying to become known

And there is a family somewhere having dinner 

Feasting on laughter 

There is a family somewhere surviving on each other's smiles

That family is simply not here 

Nor will it ever be    

The Real Me

I apologize for the wait

Thank you to those who have been so patient

Thank you to all those who left beautiful comments

Beautiful posts

But mostly beautiful impressions on my heart

 

 

Here is my reveal

Thank you for watching

Paralyzed vocal cord sleep 

On the floor of my jar full of problems 

I have always found that handwritten sentiments contain less of the volatile juxtaposition between you and I

Then your slurred rants always did 

 

My neurons plea for a break

Chained, by their throats 

To a treadmill on high speed 

They either fall and choke to death

In a pathetic lump of blood and road rash

 

Or they hop

 

In an overreactive display of the pain they must endure

It's hard to watch your own brain die

And even harder to watch YOU 

 

They say you can tell a lot about a person 

By looking into their eyes 

So I scrutinized every damn pair of dark, sullen, glazed over eyes as I could find

Hoping to find reason

 

I learned people have barbed-wire bracelets 

Tightly wrapped around their tongues

I learned people live with parents who would rather converse with lawyers and prostitutes 

Than their own spouse 

 

I learned people have dying siblings

 

But don't worry

Because with each match, we burned stronger

 

And for the people who have broken the one-way mirrors that are our pathetic pupils

WELCOME

 

Welcome to the real us 

Untainted by our parents wallets or any number of photography filters 

Welcome to the real me 

A boy with a soul  of helium 

But chain down by the echoes of six grade, top-dog, long hair haters

 

Welcome to the real me 

A forced fighter 

Because MY momma 

She has been beat up real bad 

By this dismal existence we call "life"

There is so little actually alive here

So I promised her that I would finish her final rounds for her

That I would take every hit for her

Before the gloves claimed her instead 

 

Welcome to the real me 

A tree stump throne in the hills

Built to soak up tears of teenagers

And hear EVERY rant about boyfriends, and the social injustice of adolescent mistreatment 

 

Welcome to the real me 

A mop-headed paper shredder 

With a lifetime warrantee 

A reserved child stuck in denial

A one man, first aid equipped, Red Cross ambulance 

 

 

Welcome to the real me 

An energetic harpsichord called "paranoia"

Called ugly 

Called lazy 

Called crazy 

Called "too much"

Some, some even call me a hipster but damn it, don't you dare call me that, don't you even think it 

Mixed tapes and outerwear are no indicator of identity 

 

 

A select few

Have even ventured to call me Alice

Alice S. Blackwell

 

 

But you

You can call me 1:00 AM

You can call me taxi cab driver

'Cause that's all I am to you 

You can call me friend or foe

 

 

You can call me the journal page you ripped out titled "disgust"

You can call me the desk we sawed in half so we could both have work space

 

 

You can call me Isaac 

Isaac McKay Stirland