Weatherman…

The weatherman calls for rain, but then again it always rains here. The rain is cold and it is harsh against my clothes and against my skin. The rain comes down and it pours, and when it doesn’t pour it turns into mist that surrounds me to always let me know that it is there with me. The rain will never leave.

The weatherman calls for rain. He is an idiot in a village full of them. The rain builds up on the edges of the streets and seeps up on to the sidewalk. The rain puddles becoming giant lakes on the ground. I feel as if I am Jesus walking on water, but the holes in my shoes bring me closer to the ground than closer to god.

The weatherman calls for rain, but what does it matter? When it rains it pours and it makes days seem like weeks and weeks like months. Time stands still here only the rain and the weatherman are a constant around me. Some days it burns and some days it heals, but its presence is always with me. I wonder what it would be like without all the rain.

The weather man calls for rain, and I assume my place once again amongst the rain.

Valerie Hannigan

This micro tale about nothing is inspired by my time in Washington State. Fun fact, it rains there a lot. I remember walking to work and dodging the tidal waves created by the city buses and passing cars. For a place with so much rain it always seemed as the roads were flooded. I often arrived to work soaking wet. It was very humbling and honestly some days I miss it. Maybe it’s the youth I miss. The time before the kids. Not caring about anything. Of course, that wasn’t even the case then. Everything seemed way more important than it ever actually was.  

Another reason I wrote this story was because I could care less about the weather. Not the environment, I care about that put your fangs back in. What I mean is that I don’t care if it is raining or not. It either is or it isn’t. So, to me weather specialist is kind of pointless. Tying it all together there might be some more symbolism in there somewhere. Not sure what it could be. 

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And Other Things From This Time…

Not the Answer

Sex is an ugly thing
Do what you have to do
Then it’s all over
I write because I have to
Then it’s all over
I’d stay and talk
But I have to write
This all over
A process with meaning
Still no answers
Atheism is a question
Is there a God?
Or am I only alone
Sold a million books
Reprised the question
Why am I doing this?
If it’s not worth the effort
You think you know
And so do I
But I’m a liar
Do what I have to do
To get between your thighs
I am an animal
But then why do I feel so bad
Did what I had to do
This is no lie
This is no question
I am what I am
Is not the answer

Are you paying attention?… Does this all seem as though no one else knows?… I’d give you a clue, but even they are lost on me… Driven to madness I had no choice… I hope you understand that pieces of my soul are now available on Kindle…. Enjoy…

And Other Things From This Time…

Often

I often wonder what it feels to die
Does it feel like I do now
All alone with no one to talk too
I do this to myself
Yet I don’t know the answers to my own questions
I often wonder how soon
Will all this prove to be meaningless
They say you pave your own way
But what if it’s not true
What if this is nothing more than a collection
Of me and you
I often wonder about God
Am I him or is it you
All reason would lead to nothing at all
I feel like I know what I’m saying
But in the end it all seems to come out the same
Blood in blood out and all that shit
Maybe life is nothing more than a brotherhood
Of bull shit
I do this to myself
Get all upset for no good reason
I often wonder what it feels to die
And I know it has to feel like this

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Broken Thoughts… The Beginning…

The demon it sleeps, waking only for the sound of broken bones
A ringing that snaps the consciousness, a fear steeped in blood
Fighting the demon requires an understanding
A contract of self-defecation, A knowing of constant failure
There can be no winner when all is lost
The stones tell a story of loss and misguidance
A reason to know that none of this ever mattered
The letters in blood are lost to the times
The words they spell make no sense to anyone
Gun fire in the distance, frustration released on the innocent
Taking control never meant being in charge

Rationally this all has to make some sense…

Syphoning​ the blood to sell for oil
I don’t know of a better way to inflict toil
Breaking down barriers to exterminate freedom
I don’t know of a better way to express reasons
Sounding sad to get what we are
The victims of our own troubles
Owning something sounds too harsh
I don’t know of a better reason to destroy
Freedoms lacking from the start

Reality is nothing more than what we pretend to portray…

My eyes are open to the world and I do not like what I see
A cascading river of blood washing over me
How could this world have come to be
A distant memory of civilization
Books I read that made me believe we are one
Lies told from the throat of the devil

Liars… the little liars we are…

Your policies don’t make sense
When stacked up next to each other
Is it that you hate people or people unlike you
The vast majority fit into your minority
A walking pariah, self-appointed Messiah
You’re not God or even the devil
A walking mistake we all have to live with

Layne Ambrose

Putting it all together everything can seem out of focus… stepping back though is the only way to see clearly… each little section meaning something different from the last… too many thoughts running around in my head… nothing seems so clear… guess it doesn’t matter… Broken Thoughts are all the same…

Everything has to start somewhere… What better place than this?…

Vol. 1 Available For Consumption…

Just Keep It… Between Me and You…

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And Other Things From This Time…

Survival Instinct

I can smell the new smell of death
Disgusting, digesting, fermenting
Or is it the smell of day old oil
I’m unsure as unclassified as one can be
I break into the vault only to find that it’s all gone
Nothing is ever what it seems
Yet I sit and sit waiting for something new
Each day a tiny, little bit of a disappointment
I forgot what it means to say
I forgot what it’s called
But I’m sick of waiting

I can hear a voice calling my name
Obnoxious, horrid, abstentious
Or is it someone screaming for help
I’m unsure as uncommunicable as one can be
I walked into the wrong area only to find that they had all moved on
Everything is always what it seems
Each minute a tiny, little bit of disappointment
I forgot what it means to see
I forgot what it was that I saw
But I’m sick of always wondering

I can see a figure in the distance
Disfigured, distracting, dismembered
Or is it only me from the shadows
I’m unsure as unbelievable as that could be
I destroyed every mirror only to learn there was never an image
Nothing is ever what it seems
Each second a tiny, little bit of a disappointment
I forgot what it means to be
I forgot what it was that I heard
But I’m sick of never knowing

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