King.

This sepulcher
Of fishbone frailty
Fragile ribs
More of a net than a cage.
Can't contain it.

These enamel gates
Wide hallways
Of coffee stained stones
Shrouded by rosy clouds.
Can't explain it.

These childlike paws
Reach with fervor
Grasp for tangibilty
Finding half-moon holes
In clammy palms.
Can't abstain from it.

I love you.

For Arthur.

In this wooded haven,
a seasoned timber guise,
draped Usnea beards,
a thousand austere eyes.

We're in the land of giants now;
amongst their toes we tread.
Our whispers reach arborous ears,
but are better left unsaid.

assishness. yeah, that's a word.

So I got a phone call this past weekend.
It was unexpected.
It was a stranger.
His name was Patrick.
He was a "journalist." The almighty editor in fact.
Normally, I might replace his name to spare his identity, but he lost that privilege. Let me preface this by saying I'm the editor of my school's news publication. We just moved online and I'm quite proud of the collaborative effort of our team. This being said, as editor, I feel as though I am held to certain standards. Though they may be self-enforced, I feel as though I should hold myself to be professional, respectful, and to deliver the news as best I know how. So back to this phone call.

Introductions were made and it was established that this fellow was calling to ask me a few questions about Arthur. Though I had recently written an article about him myself, it was still strange to be interviewed about it.

Deep Breath in. Ok. Go ahead.
"Obviously with Arthur leaving, you have the most to lose out of everyone... How does it make you feel knowing that?"

I sat dumbfounded for a second as I processed and reprocessed this question. I was stunned. Appalled. Befuddled. Did this kid really just ask me this?
I was less suprised by the question than I was by the actual tone in his voice. It was condescending. Belittling. and frankly, rude.

I answered it the best I knew how and remained a tad offput for the rest of the interview. As a journalist, I knew I had to be professional, but I wanted nothing more than to punch this kid in the gullet.

I talked to Arthur about the interview, then spoke with my journalism instructor. I was still dumbfounded by the caliber of respect that was so..rudimentary.

I pushed it to the back of my mind, but the urge for a well-deserved heavy handed straight returned when Arthur forwarded me a copy of this article, if you can call it that.

Arthur apologized in advance. I knew it had to be bad. I read the article. I reread the article. and I thought to myself,

No.

No.

No.

No.

Even looking past the grammatical errors it was unbearable. It used logical fallacies. Quotes were misquoted. Horrible things were implied. Hard work was discredited. There was misrepresentation. It was nonsensical.

I sat in disbelief, I sat on my hands to restrain the burning urge within my fingertips to write an awfully strongly worded letter to the editor..OH WAIT. Everyone mentioned in the article was made out to be..different.

I knew Arthur could handle it and he politely asked for corrections to be made, and though some were, a very unfortunate revision was still published online today.

I knew this would happen sooner or later. I knew that something would be published about this journey that would not only be skewed, but well, skewered.

I know that I'll have to be thick-skinned and tolerant for those who butcher reality and the written word, but this made me realize how hard this next 15 months will be. I care about Arthur far too much to be bothered by public ordeals like this; I need to get used to this. I just wish everyone could see not only him, but this whole journey for what it really is.

But I just have to remember to breathe and take everything in stride, just as Arthur does far more often.

Caught in between.

They say..
Moss can't grow
On a
Rolling stone.
But this rock 's
The only anchor
That I've
Ever known.
And I chose
Cement shoes
Don't thank
Mr. Capone
Call it igneous
Not ignorant
On this
Granite throne.

But rock turns
To sand
When time's hands
Turn to hate.
And words
Die in dust
When they're
Born of the slate.
Erosives, explosives
Seduce then sedate.
This beach is glass pieces
And an open window to create.

slam.

first shot at a new style.
here goes.



I’m running
Running. Running. Running.
But,
This rut is getting deeper
This hill is getting steeper
Each foot is sinking deeper
But I’m still racing.

Each step enveloped in this sand
But it isn’t
It’s the sandman
Recalling dreams that I wish I could forget
And I’d erase it but it’s better to
Embrace it.
Lest I be a hypocrite..
I don’t regret them but each foot is sunken
Like your eyes.

Forgotten in those dreams
Addict eyes they wander and they wonder
But your only heroin was my words.
Dripping and hanging they flowed into your veins
Like a direct line.
Words are swords,
But on a smaller scale
They are needles.
Skinny needles
Shiny needles
But they are dull.
Ground down by every doubt
Cross hatched with second thoughts
But they still pierce.
Injecting and infecting
Intravenously.
And you sucked up my lies
But they were what you wanted.
The truth is too much to get a grip on
So you fed on these thoughts
It wasn’t a flow
More like a drip and
It goes
On and off.
On and off.

But never the latter.
It was a constant
You lived for it,
This witty banter
But there is no humor in the darkness.

Happy times were
like light but nowadays
there is neither.
Like this smile that means nothing anymore.
Like this frown that means nothing anymore.
Like these screams that mean nothing anymore.
Nothing means nothing
When nothing exists
And everything’s a figment
The air im breathing isn’t there
And this ground isn’t bare
It’s non-existent.

But I wake up
And realize
that I’m sorry.
I was the influence and
You were under me
but I didn’t mean it.

I swear.

So here are the needles.
Just take them
Swallow them
Break them
Make them earrings
I don’t give a damn.

No more lies
Or the sharp tongue
I’ve given up.
My words are redacted
and retracted
counteracted
and I’m silent.
I’m gaining traction
And I found
A rock to fill these gaps
That were created
Contemplated but now I’ve made a decision.
It’s firm
And I’m standing
No slipping
Because I couldn’t take this
Lying down.
Those rotten dreams
Are buried with the shell
Of the one who couldn’t handle
And as for you

Well..

At the end.

More and more I feel I'm losing touch with my writing. It's been a slow fade, over the last year or so, and a quite unfortunate one at that.

Writing has always been my hiding place, one where I was never pressured out of using rhetoric and metaphors and irony. Constantly I find myself being urged by others to be more "straightforward." Time and time I've been burdened by the heavy words of others stating how I "mislead." This part of my life I try to keep seperate from my writing altogether. It's an ugly component, greedy and grotesque and one that I would gladly do without. But writing, not always my own, in and of itself, is a beautiful thing. It's gritty and unforgiving and raw. In all of this, it is beautiful.

I know that I need to write more, but I feel as if I force myself to then I will resent it, the thing I've always loved most. This is why I know I can never write as a career.

A calmness in the wild.

It's strange. This whole college thing. When my mom dropped me off, she kept saying "it's just like summer camp."

I hated summer camp.

The beach is 15 minutes from my dorm. I can see a huge lake from my bedroom window. I get to walk by a stream and through the forest to get to the gym.

So much is going on around me. Baby chipmunks cross my path. Seagulls fly overhead. Raccoons sprint by my window.

And in the midst of all of it, I'm calm. I'm Happy.