I've been writing for a good while now, and cite my primary literary influences as Edgar Allan Poe and Hunter S Thompson. There have been a host of other authors who have made an impact on my writing, but the style itself is set in a way so as to imitate the influence towards the maximum, albeit with a gross exaggeration of the content. As a school, it has be Gonzo...nothing else will do. Someday, I'll finish my book. Buy the ticket. Take the ride.
Seeing this as I saw me in a world all but forgotten by glee, we sat in denial and woeful mirth, ironically thinking this as nothing’s worth.
You took my hand and let me pray, while I thought to be led astray, wishing doubting ideas that spawned disgust and scorn, ripe and torn, fresh and unborn,
yet lucid as me and lucid as you trapped in a fantasy of sniffing glue
my immaturity has thus been proven true.
As embers burn and tables turn, a life lived full is a life less yearned.
You speak of me as I speak of you; strange, lucid and untrue about all of nothing wrapped with something in between
something broken, remorseless and unseen.
Attention paid is attention lost, in a smoke-filled, ethereal paradox, where these sins of mine are running thin,
brooding, barking and never grim.
You helped me up to push you down, screaming still but without a sound; you fall into a life of wanton joy by claiming loss as your disease.
And the damage caused will never cease.
As ideas flow and life runs rich, as paper burns and fingers twitch, as I can sleep and you cannot, my mind is burdened by your hopeless thought;
wicked, wonderful, yet unkind,
all spoken wordlessly within the madman’s mind.
We felt not judged and neither condemned while thinking to send each dream to hell, where it burns and burns but never sells its passions to a public that feeds off ill heed.
There was no presence felt while in prayers we knelt,
begging and pleading for charitable alms with a throat full of psalms to glorify this praise, all twisted and locked in the mid-day haze.
By needing nothing, you’re simplified;
by writing twice, you’e multiplied to increase effect and to kill neglect.
Well, virtue was lost and vice was gained as freedom of thought lay slain and maimed, anonymous to me and withholding from you,
as you sit there speaking,
Not knowing what I want from me
while I climb this pole of uncertainty, only to meet you at the peak,
the irony of this does not allow for speech,
but perhaps many a lesson this will teach to me and mine and you and yours
as we learn of our fate,
viewing it through the lens of time,
I regret to say that yours is yours,
and mine is mine.
This division of trust is perhaps for good, with sin and evil misunderstood to gain in nothing its retrospect;
this allows me to see what my mirror reflects.
Differences linger, the division survives allowing for a moment of dulled surprise to better our lives as me and you,
while I sit and reminisce,
sniffing this glue.
Alas, the hands of time have stopped as I have climbed uncertainty to the top, and I can see for miles and miles,
admittedly wondering once in a while as to where you went as I am here,
I reached the top despite despair,
and now I sit,
upon this throne my life wouldn’t bring.
The crown upon my head, it does not fit
and still I sit in thought of me and you,
sniffing this glue,
wondering if this crown was made for me
or for you.
It would have been fun to see what we had missed,
while this glue lays here, waiting to be sniffed.