A Dreadfully Fake Fatmouth.

You know that point in a good story when the bad guy finally shows up? There’s always suspenseful music and poorly done close ups of anxious faces…the terror is tangible, even to the viewer. Well what if there is no music at all? What if the bad guy’s entrance is subtle and incognito? What if the villain blindsided the heroin with a haymaker out of nowhere, knocking her down before stomping her unconscious and stealing her grandmother’s jewelry from her bloodied fingers and clenched fists?

That’s pretty much how this most recent bullshit waste of my time, money and energy has come to represent in my mind.

And even more disturbingly, this sorry fuck actually has himself convinced that, despite the fact that he STOLE FROM ME while he was a guest in my home, he has been victimized. It’s truly pathetic how he comes to my blog and steals my posts then paraphrases them and acts all proud of himself for being the plagiarizing thief he is, in reality. He has proven to be one of the very worst guys I’ve ever tangled with romantically…he’s just such a miserable worm.

And now that I’m looking for it in him, it’s so blatant and obvious that I additionally feel like a complete dolt for not seeing it. I spent over and year with this idiot being totally and completely lied to by a narcissistic fuck.

I’m so over everyone in my life at present besides my friend who’s thankfully living nearby…he has been sanity for me lately, though his trial period with me has been extended, which is usually not a good sign.


I have to be able to take it or leave it.

Because that’s what I have to be able to do.


Blades of silver-lined grass have cushioned the fall on my ass –

once again, I take a hostage and somehow inch my way passed;

fingers shake too much to hold still: my pistol at will;

thoughts racing too far ahead of me and going too fast.


Trees bearing perfectly painted Paper-Mache fruits –

line the mirage of roads that lead so far from the truth;

it turns out anyway: when the sun sinks every day,

it’s nothing more than another trick played on me, too.


The moon hangs up high only long enough to revive –

the parts of this pirated vessel that can “look alive”;

but then it once more – gets replaced just like before,

a solar mockery of a lunar will to simply survive.


The cardboard doors fall in as soon as the knocking begins;

a façade made to look like there’s humanity within;

templates of bodies without faces – drafted in pencil-thin traces,

erases the faces away where the canvas wears thin.


Wrapped stupidly inside a snuggly blanket of lies;

happy and obliviously beneath a tissue paper sky;

soothed to death – by my very breath;

too tired to break down and too numb to wonder why.


And everyone says I’ve lost my mind this time;

in which case, the truth has been quite unkind –

it stands, aloof – evidence doesn’t spell ‘proof’;

enlightenment so poisonous, it leaves the sun blind.