Polishing tin

There wasn't the one that got away...
Worn down on paths, seldom walked...
Not all stories have happy endings...
Nothing is touching or matching...
There was never that spark, that came with a look...

Bound like this

They would meet on a shady day, not unlike this...
They would fight to make it unreal, fighting with fate...
For their own sense of destiny...
Plans that were never made to take on another...
Only for that one, would hearts sink...
Nothing could make them cry, then to be bound like this...
Something they couldn't ever, overcome...
No matter the tears, no matter the distance...
It wasn't theirs to say...

Grey light

Is this how rainy days are...
Without a drop...
With a confidence of the grey light...
Something could be on the otherside...
There could be a meaning to this silence...
Because there is no echo to tell...
Who could tell me this...

Ends meet

For half a mind...
Dedicated to find some peace...
The other looking for a path...
Ones that aren't expected...
Mostly focused on making ends meet...

Not just me

I just wish I could sleep in a bed that wasn't always empty...
And there would be no fights...
Where is my quiet cloud of peace...
Somewhere to call ours...
When it not just me...

...1

sweet apathy...
A nights rest...
For how long, will this last...
The reality is something to ignore

Post retrospect

I'm some kind of animal...
I'm some kind of dream..
That can't say which is best...
I don't care what you want...
I don't care what anybody wants...
Where does everything fit...
When does it come together...

Taking care

To negotiate the release...
To find the peace...
Something more than in between...
Some kind of reason to be awake...
Taking on a form of life...
For the next day, besides just breathing

Let it be... let it play out... even though...

Love me if you could save me...
Call me back if you find me...
From somewhere below...
Find some kind of love...
One that was long forgotten...
And for good reasons...
No rebirth of a cool thought...
Just acceptance of what should have been...
Even with heavy words like a cross

Growing up... you say

This is where it is...
This is where it goes from here on out...
No matter the sound that makes dreams...
After the silence of making life...
The acceptance of things...
Is it how it is...

Animals goals

I'm an animal...
Because that's all I can be right now in life...
I've no prospects, aside from breathing...
Smashing rocks and crushing cans...
Soon my day will come...
That day will be my only goal...
After today...

How i met the world halfway

Looking for the occasion to wake up...
With a plan that doesn't seem like before...
Finding every occasion to say it alloud again...
Just convince myself to live with hope...

My own

With everything I have to see...
And everything I have to do...
Don't expect me to care...
Don't expect me to cry...
If I'm not doing what you want...
My own way is what I'm gonna do...
The answers to how things go...

Jazzy in the attempt

Like a warm dry night, an attempt at dreams with a few pints of cheap beer. What your looking for isn't always what you need.
And with the pressing through of another day for another night like this, doesn't seem like dieing comes some enough...

It always seems like this from down here with the rest of no dreams. To disappear somewhere in the regular with no voice, even though you are the voice worth speaking...

Likening the world as a joke that comes over in simples sips of cheap drinks no one ever remember....

Song like song

I don't know if I would ever feel, if one ever came back...
After months or years, sad songs they'd sing...
Those days are further away than I remember...
There never was a light that always shone...
Nothing longer than more breaths I'd like to admit...
If I don't love anyone anymore, what does the next one mean...
Are my tomorrows here all the same because of that...
Does the child in me, still believe in a true song...
Like a final breath...

Mud

Feelings come and go, while gripping and tearring...
Where is there the center...
Where is there the meaning...
All the while static and irrelevant...
Are the only words about it...
That aren't flowery or redundant...

Dark winding roads

Store brand liqour, mostly cheap vodka was taken in quick lame sips, that lingered sharply. There was nowhere to it out on the dark side of town, so it had to be swollowed, grimacing and all.

The streets were long and winding on top of quiet hills, no one would know if a car slid off the road for days if it happened. Stupid drunks like these two always rode the night carrying that cheap foul vodka, while they were out on their strange psuedo relationship.

The roads they rode were always at night where they knew police didn't really visit. Words and plans always the topic between the two, but nothing real was ever spoken. They just liked to fly around dark turns with faded instincts, like no one else. Never speaking or taking into account of what this really looked like at 3 am.

She was always on a stupid waking drug, when he chugged his sleeping drug. They only met up every couple days to justify feeling weak about themselves. When she would to a near crash and to be somewhere safe, when he had a little pay leftover and needed to be near a warm body again.

They would grind the road for hours till sleep was the only topic. When it was still dark they would roll back to his room and climb through the window, like two theives and fall asleep holding eachother like the greatest of lovers... never kissing just the embracing for the warmth and intimacy of another.

When the light would reach him or when schreeching alarms would shatter that last memory of the night's warmth, that he realised that she was gone as if it was only a dream...

Potential

If dreams of death...
Were all of the meaning your life...
Why do you breath...
My dreams of lifes beyond mine...
Are not haunting...
But more of a smile about the things I can do...
My potentional is beyond...
But how or who to direct it...

The old city of dirt and nowheres

If it wasn't for the sun that burnt more than my flesh...
Its always the same feeling that keeps everything from the heat...
Air that burns the lungs with each breath...
Where to run out of gas, better places could be thought where to waste time...
Somewhere where the grass doesn't burn a dull yellow...
The occasionally breaks up throught the dead grass, with its warn and used grey brown color...
No white cloud would bless this dry place with shade...
It would like this for this or my generation...
Where my life won't be planted...

The price of civilization

Broken roads breaking into sand...
Under feet like the wheels of fighting armies...
Ones that cross from one dry ocean to the next...
While the first men are forced to watch as theirs lives end...
Only able to grit their teeth at the locoust...

Son or a bitch

This is the man that had soo many clicks...
For all the clicking parts that meant more to pieces of other languages...
The same kind of madness, spoke like an idiot...
With some kind of madness that evolved as a word...

The million waits

Broken pieces that matter not...
Even in the dancing of frightful lives of nothing...
Only in the seeking soo much of the forgotten...
Give the paths aside from the falsing men...
And if the thundering boots that ring tonight...
Last beyond tonight the world would be

Drinking at the end

As a Friday comes near...
Soo many vices come true...
Lives of bleeding men...
Breath as a gasoline for the new week...
The only bases drink some site of truth...

It goes on... nothing is ending here

Nothing is going end...
Not with these words...
Even to look back on broke words...
It doesn't end as a shock...
That no one gets...
It goes on as the eternal year...
Where no one gets everything...
Even if to hold on, it won't end...
Even as weak sigh, it goes on...
Again and again

Wrote... wrote... wrote

When the moon doesn't shine...
Summer nights seem colder...
For inside a silent mind...
The yellows and oranges of old tattered memories...
Give some worth, even as an anonymous fragment...
That misery has only so many words...
And in this breath it has only soo meaning...
Till the days and nights have past in many forgotten thoughts...

rainy days

its always been a terrible thing, that on rainy days...
there could not be one to keep...
the sun only shined twice at me and left me with beautiful dreams...
after all the cigarettes and all the alcohol lost on waking up...
those dreams could seem smarter than having to take whats given...
from decades bleeding into the mornings wishes...
rainy days always have some kind of terrible hope...
for the idiot who always keep his dreams within city limits...
like the edge of life in a town in nowhere...
but only somewhere he didn't fit...
rainy days always say something terrible of not burning in the sun...
and if one day that sun came back like before...
it would seem more beautiful than all the dreams before...

for the unsure...

telling stories that aren't even as much as missing numbers lost...
adding them up in mornings of days after...
always lost never so much as whisper, they call like false wicked dreams...
taxing to seek this life, with only so much room to do more...
every else this seems like a slow sinking ship...
but to stand and never to speak of those thousand loses would be a murder...
the frequent life of the millions around couldn't care enough to see beyond the dust...
any attempt to the sun again beyond morning dreams is worth more than sitting still...
but for those stranger moments were more than life even though as day and nights came faster...
they seem the only stray light that didn't scream about nothing...
the sad look of days that couldn't be told apart were the only reason otherwise...
to find words to write...

tomorrow... army of me

for all the dreams that weren't of drunks...
more than envy was the truth...
because more than sighing was daily...
fear and lies from fear kept the machine flowing...
into the next day with a blink of an eye

history beyond

for everything struck...
not all the words were struck...
and the future has yet to be spoken...
memories were strong of history...
more precise and more beautiful...
than the blank truth of just one dimension...

Nothing like

Nothing like being on the otherside...
The otherside of struggling...
What is the reason...
Where do the days go...
Sleep could only last so long...
To earn a long rest...
Is the true goal...

Word of man

For everything likely...
The steel hearts growl...
More than the bravest truths...
And wither in the snow...
To bloom the truths, that were fears...
In the fearful winters...
Declicate are the words of man...

Lust, luster, and lusted

There is nothing crazier than love...
Everything around can't explain...
The moments on top of breathes....
Unspoken to be held...
Nothing is enough be words...
For those blessed...
Whispers are the gosphel...
To grind into the next breath...
Some kinda agony is the moments between love...
And holding down the touches desires...
Is every moments expectation...

Its all the same

What hearts mean...
With drinking lives...
Who is to conquer...
The many words...
Screaming mercy...
Not to be affraid...
Nothing shatters...
More than madness...
And only truth...

Some, some, some breaths

With all the dreams sinking...
With dust settling...
Breathes come forth as blasphamy...
If words could touch hope...
Silence wouldn't be sought...
Warm tastes of bitter spirits...
Calm the meanings between...
The reality and fantasies of hopes...
Dreams that aren't in new decades...

Upon me

I am that villan with the sharp teeth...
I was that boy who got tired of losing...
But still I played the game...
Till I forgot what was so funny about it...
This is what I have to stand...
In every word that sounds bitter...
That was the joke upon me

I am the wall lost

for all the lost needs...
given up with little fight...
days having since accepted...
now learning to admire again from you...
and it doesn't seem likely...
with my own struggles that I strike all at once...
something compels me to watch...
it is because that is the only truth i can give...
in your life you can no longer look again...
but in your eyes i can breath again...
and to dream of holding your little hand...
is all that i should do...
maybe not to settle for the sad or the grotesque...
i am still within the walls of confusion...
walking, walking, near and dreaming...
of not to carry a ring that isn't there...

When I grow up

When I grow up...
My aim will have been true...
And where I broke...
Will be laughs...
Everything I do will be around me...
When I grow up...
I could sleep secure...

The centerist

Writing before and now...
I given up on caring...
My own hunger to make it to tomorrow...
Has made me greedy...
To the saints of the moment...
And when the working day is over...
My day will be complete...
And the fantasies of utopia...
Will be that, from the silent steps...
My struggle will be for the next...
Not the breeze of maybe...

true love

if i was ever to give up and pretend...
what madness would rack me...
day after day, i'd look to some other madness...
and where would my truth be...
this would be my sickness, to wonder...
during the half of a half time...
the safe place wouldn't be in giving up...

Only then

Its been almost 20 years since we met...
But I can still see you dieing in my dreams...
Slowly wilting and sliding away...
The whole time you know it...
But you do nothing because you know...
That its you And you won't change...
I don't know what you want from me...
Even in dreams I can only watch you...
5 years after having a single night...
I know your dieing...
And my time that I gave was only then...

Fighting for the pontential

Who is gonna hear this now...
The phone stays silent...
Things have been cancelled...
There's not the faith...
Like there was in the morning...
Wasn't much from the beginning...
But it was enough to believe...
And now there are only the laughs...
blue collar beasts know nothing more...

I hope for ways

I'm at a brief moment of clarity...
Everything is a haze...
Because not to much fits...
Weither by fault or someones design...
I have to sit by building and building...
What I haven't figured out yet...
My hands have only taken me recently...
What I am in the end I hope for the best...
I have only this madness...
That I am given no promises...

The Weathered Body and The Indifferent Head 1.1

The Weathered Body and The Indifferent Head

Chapter 1

The junk traders choked the streets with their junk trucks, on an ungodly hot day. Broken asphalt was everywhere crumpled from battles fought here 6 years ago. Bullet shells still littered these paths amongst the broken buildings that had yet to be revitalized

These streets still had blood lust running down the broken asphalt veins. But the lust was shoved aside for the struggle of empty bellies that never stayed full. Scrapers made enough to survive into a new day. The streets always provided the materials and wages to rebuild the fallen city of angels.

A city that god loved and hated. It had seen so many rebirths, held soo many loves in her arms. The children always came from everywhere in the world to live amongst the angel flights

He always reran this thought while passing mangled buildings on the way back to his apartment. Always drawing too hard on his cigarette while in this thought, he'd always feel sick when he got to his dark room To pour himself a drink of some whiskey that always survived the renovations of America. He'd try to silence the madness he knew of his whole life from the beginning, the desert he hated, and the angry job that wasn't a career (the only thing he was partially good at made him sick)
The search for truth in this loved/hated city made everything harder to swallow there was no magic pill that made it easier... he'd just cope...

Sleep always grasped at him like a neglected love. He had never been able to devout more than a few drunken eye blinks. He'd never make it to the bed anyways. Either from passing out on the couch watching infomercials or from rushing out the door for work, always with a drink in hand in both cases

Tonight was always the same, stuck in the kitchen cracking eggs into a burnt skillet filled with leftover spiced bits in it. A coffee cup of water and whiskey always got more attention than the burning meal. He didn't taste it any ways between the smoking and drinking, it was the lackadaisical attitude which allowed him to eat everything, even if spoiled.

He'd stare out into the living room letting the warmth take him. He knew he should be livelier just in case a call jerked him out of his nothing routine, but the poison in the cup grew stronger with less water each refill.

most of the souls he knew young and old had a ritual like that, something they held on to like grim death. nothing in the world would ever change that for them.


***


The music never changed it always stayed the same. Till someone passed then that record would be taken out of the jukebox forever retired

The drink was always served neat, never with ice. The water would stretch it out just a little longer. The Jameson Irish whiskey was always at hand while in between these walls.

Fights would always be finished before they even be they started when he would start to growl...
“Ok Juan you can smoke” tobacco always in the other free hand, clenched tight, drawn too hard and killed quicker, burning the knuckles on cold nights.

With burning days, bleak nights again and again. The choking coughs would start again in the cold; the blood would’ve concerned him if it didn’t already happen before it was all the same as long as it didn’t stop the ritual.

The fits were stronger tonight but he stifled them to the point where it was only a slight shoulder shrug, cool water and a few minutes alone always pushed them away.

A solitary porcelain sink waited below a dim 40 watts yellow light bulb. That only blessed the small broken room with enough light to turn the cold faucet on. He preferred not to see the room anyways. It was all broken with kids writing their names on the walls from tonight and from before this… something never changed through the broken mess for progress.

Silently staring at in the mirror, staring at someone who expected an answer… the reply would never come while the flinching shoulders lurched stronger. To stand resolved cured the inevitable for now.

His bar stool sat empty waiting for the return, bodies moved away from him avoiding the fierce for that came with john’s smoking. Hair trigger to everyone around him. Like if everyone drank his drink, and left him nothing, but spit.

Juan, john’s real name never wanted company but everyone knew his name and this ritual that came with him. His way was too sour and hard to follow. The bitterness burned thicker than the cigarette smoke the held him in the center of it.

Knocking on the bar caught Tortuga’s attention to see Juan’s one stained index finger in the air that made the motion pointing down in front of him on the bar. This signal meant he expected another drink soon.

The drink would sit without complaint till Juan gave it the love it was created for. Fresh air would need to be taken before he could love the remaining love in the world for him.

This part of town always grew back faster and darker than any other part of downtown. The cold air mixed with the smoke on his breath it showed his life in obvious motions against the orange lights of the city.

Silence was everywhere around him; his lungs gave up on fighting the smoke for now. The world grew easier with long embracing draws. His minds world would draw in that silence as well while he stood against the rubble hidden in the shadow of the rebirth of the never dying almighty…
Those tagging kids always came around always forever asking for cigarettes or money that they would use to look for a cheap high that most people didn’t know about.

Juan never pitied them because he believed they did it to themselves their own private hell, and he wouldn’t help them by make himself poorer. He’d just swat them away with his free hand that was the only help he was willing to give them. They’d always try same ones every time. Some kind of addiction to the either the abuse, or to the ritual.

They would always stare at his six shooter at his side, and say “oye vaquero can I bum…” that’s as far as they’d get with him, before he would belt them in the mouth.

There was always the one kid who seemed smarter than the rest who always stood 2 or 3 paces behind the kids who always got smacked every time. On one occasion Juan grabbed him in his frustration and pistol whipped the young hungry kid; when one kid tried to reach for the cigarette out of his mouth. That was the only kid that learned the lesson to leave him alone even though the kids never reached at him again.

The fits started in stronger than earlier when he backhanded one and kicked another one in the stomach, this time was much worse than before because the blood came out like a spray in the first cough and he dropped to his knees.

Sucking in cold air from a blood filled mouth he said “Awe… Shit!” then dropping his cigarette he gasped for air… air that burned in his chest like fire even in the cold air, Fire did not belong there. His stomach following the lead gave over to the over whelming pain. The kids seeing the blood ran away before he even got to drop his cigarette.

Everything was losing his attention quickly as the pain he felt was beginning to become more than he could handle. The part of the world he could still grasp was his saying something he couldn’t understand and the sensation of falling back slowly.

He couldn’t rationalize anything in this experience nothing had ever come close. There was only the pain in every part of his body. He tried and fought with everything in his soul to stand normally. Flailing in his mind against this overbearing sensation for real or in the heart was something that couldn’t be defined from the words that away from the blood on his lips.

This struggle was all he knew from the beginning... his beginning the only struggle that mattered. There was nothing else here just this fight for sharp painful breaths and the process to stand ignoring the pain.

Chapter 2


Stupid voices spoke outside uncaringly of those who listened as if no one else was there who listened as if no one else was there to hear them reveal their hearts, even decades after they spoke last.

Everything around him was like this the idiot box just had been louder but not loud enough to call his attention away from the attempt to silence the breathing madness inside. Staying up all night somewhere between remembering…

Disturbances outside the normal always drew anger with more irritation than days sitting summer heat. Tonight’s call was not a different part of the night’s slow drip. Screaming sounds of electronics followed reaching through intentional broken views of the world.

“Yeah?!” Mumbling, fumbling, irritation.

“Vincent! You need to get downtown now!” trembling irritation always came from this voice at this time of night. Mothers to some, mothers to all, never approving.

“I’ll be there after I shower, Sharon.” He knew she disapproved of most of the things he did but she was his work superior, not his mother. But out of respect he gave indifferent meekness.

“Vincent… it’s important. You need to be here at the scene…” Sharon said in a tearing voice.

Before Vincent cut in yelling “Yeah I’ll be there like I always am” before he hung up. The liquor always gave him the truth he feared to say by daylight sober. In his mind he had a good laugh about it.

Sitting up to turn off the constant light of the TV he spilled his coffee that everything sank to the bottom of. His single couch had all the same marks on it from the nights before. Stepping down on the ground his bare foot stepped on to his empty plate he barely finished before trying to give up on this day. If he wasn’t awake with frustration already the fork on the plate woke up everything inside of him with screaming nerves.

The shower excuse wasn’t a lie anymore. Water was always soothing even though it could take him in other ways. The alcohol was only brushed off the skin not off the soul. Cold energy drinks would mask some of the obvious; cigarettes would be the other winning factor to hiding it.

Driving like this half living half attempting was always the mortal challenge but the hypnotic road would force the body into attention for the time being and the journey would always be forgotten again without any passing nostalgia.


Only if the cranky old man wasn’t there, he could actually get some work done. Things were always tense always taught eternally, ready to snap with a slap to the face. Everything slipped when knew the old man was there. Always afraid of the criticism, that always came wither spoken or just a facial expression. It always made his hands clip corners justifying the sound of disapproval the sigh the hiss or some kind of curse that was barked in his limited vocabulary.

There was always the gloom he felt when the old man was near, the bark and the disapproving grunts always fumbled Vincent’s simplest actions, but he had to endure the demeaning and vulgar looks. Respect, was what the angry burnt old man deserved, after years of carrying everyone and surviving everything that had happened after the war.

Lines drawn between the plebs and the authority always written in yellow score the scene, flashed in red and blue lights twisting in constant revolution.

There was always the hurdle of the idiot uniform police officers, unsure of what to do after something had actually happened. As if action was all they knew or understand in these untamed streets. White sheets would be the only thing they could ever think of. And that would be the
barrier between the elements that may have been the reason this sorry person was here.

Travelers had to break it down clinically cold as such to look aside, to do their work.  It was only to make it to the next day intact, cynicism was easier and healthier.

Walking the familiar routine he could do almost blindfolded. The faint smell of blood and vomit in the air mixed with the beer and/or some other kind of vice.

Indifference claimed all in this frame of mind… till a lost uniform reached out and grabbed Vincent by his wrist and said “Vincent.” Followed by “please wait”

“get your damn hands off me!” followed by Vincent snapping his arm away to make a fist before noticing it was a dumb female uniform, staring at him with idiot eyes.

He glared at her with an added frustration that he couldn’t release at her. She didn’t know him to be so familiar and say his first name “Stupid girl!” he spat at her before he turned back to work that was laying a few feet away.

The old man would’ve pushed that stupid girl for touching him. Always on end never happy, just always effective… he never gained friends for it. The old man had a job to do and would smack or push anyone out of the way who bothered him.

His job was to travel back to the final gasps of this sad burnt soul, for justice and for peace. Their mysteries would linger like blood stained hands invisible to others till they put to rest.

This was for the travelers, his cross to bear, his penance, imagined or true, buying karma in advance. Coldness was how he’d carry on as in only giving the prescribed amount of respect.

Vincent could rest easy again after the old man would light a cigarette because it meant the old man was done and would be leaving soon. And all the simple functions would all come back again, like speaking like a person again, no longer the silent pending anger would show on his face.

His tools he pulled from his breast pocket that also drew out his coffin nails he had next to his lighter to the ground, just a few feet away from the white sheet that protected the world from seeing another shit bricker cut open and spilt crappy paisa beer and blood all over the side walk.

He could smell the cheap beer that smelled like trash even when it was still in the can. There was no way to romanticized this in his head. This is what the world had for him, shit and the smell of shit in a can, the die was cast and it always kept him in the middle of this shit forever. Another night, like the rest before.

He’d breathe a sigh after looking around over his shoulders, and not seeing the old man giving him daggers. Then he’d pull away the sheet to see the face he dreaded seeing the whole night.
Blank, silent with the life missing poured out with blood from his mouth in his final breath all over the front of his shirt. Lost, Vincent froze on the ground losing everything in his mind seeing Juan (John) Salvatore under the sheet a victim of a regrettable night. Everything was silent here, there wasn’t a siren, there wasn’t homeless or wastes being questioned, no idiot uniforms stopping him from this pain of this moment.

This old man he watched, waiting for him sit up and belittle him for staring at him for laying still. After everything they survived together, his savior, his mentor, and his only father figure couldn’t say anything anymore.

The struggle against the night was over now, sleep…

***

everything was obvious where it was but nothing fit, like watching the wheels run across the road that was always under foot.

it was best to let the road tell him the way home. he was lost between emotions, conflicts abound, there was no more fuel for his hate. there was no face or place for it anymore.

it was all stolen away from him now, there wasn’t meaning to it anymore, no joy in the peace that would come. there was nothing left to say about it, after traveling back to those last few moments of sadness. for it to end like that... took all the hate and anger leaving his silent heart smoldering and lost.

his body followed the road like it always did, but this time there was no report to be filed tomorrow, no fights about vagueness, just the path to sleep, deeper and darker into himself. to witness this was more sobriety would allow him.

for now alcohol would save his soul from everything that wasn’t there anymore....

Chapter 3

being off of the `map for three days on a quiet bender to digest and grasp the situation. the world was kept at bay and it was written on his face, that his anger was gone and filled with sorrow.

for all the horrible memories Vincent held about juan the man was still the only father he knew... the only reason he was so angry was because  the oldman literally beat survival into his soul, and for that he should be thankful...

***

he almost missed the funeral from his drunken rage. he said nothing the whole time at the funeral, even when people came to give to him their condolences and to pay their final respects... he sat silent, barely noticing them, he barely noticed them as he sat for the most part silent in a mixed rage... that’s the way the old man would’ve wanted it... being a man of few words.

***

Many days passed before  he could pretend  to walk the world with a sober step to met with sharon.
when he stumbled into her office ,he could sharon  her dipping an expensive bag of tea into a steaming ceramic cup of hot water, like she always did  with the same blank look on her face. as she waited for her tea to brew.

she always drank it hot no matter the weather, the middle of summer (he always begged for an end) or during the long winter that was the reason drink to the tea for him... she had this M.O. for the most part of the time he’d been a detective.

“Sit” she said as she continued to to stare into her steaming cup silently focused.

Vincent sat down somewhere between faking life and sincerity. he let his eyes float about the room, not focusing on her words because he knew that they would sting of callous emotion or the truth of where he’d been recently.

“Vincent” she said with a light voice of a mother waking a child. “this place needs to keep running...” she paused to gather her next words “and i can’t let things fall slide for too long. i’ve given you time, but this work comes fast and hard, so if you can’t cut it let me know”

as a fuzzing mess vincent sat dumbfounded at the remorseless statement that he was slapped with. in his slow dripping mind this was an insult, one that was deep cutting.

before vincent could form words to say sharon pre-emptied with “i’m hurting to... but i can’t just let everything turn to shit, because i hurt.” in these last few words revealed a silent hurt and weakness that he had never known that she had.

all vincent could reply with was a simple childish nod, because in those true statements he was hit with the responsibility of being an adult for the first time in his life.

“Before i get into business, what did you see in there? what’s kept you silent for almost a week now?”

In a sober and gruff voice vincent said “did i ever tell you about the time, John pistol whipped me for falling asleep while on guard duty?” he then sat up the way John would have told him to sit.

“What does that mean?” true puzzlement in sharon’s voice and face was obvious from behind a small plume of steam, while she sipped her hot tea slowly.

with a slight hesitation and a slight smile vincent replied “it means i will be staying.”

as if understanding sharon nodded and “juan was by no means a soft man”

“... well then i’ve got a case that needs your attention as a traveler” she then paused to blow the steam from his cup “i need you to go to the west LA to handle this one.” her slowing steamed cup dropped, so that she could hand him a file. “This victim we’ve been keeping a file on, since we started to our act together. ”

“this guy was high ranking in the Echieverra government. so he had many enemies and it looks like one of them caught up with him, to do more than talk to him about how things were in the good ol’ days.”

Vincent leafed through the file glancing at the important dates and names, while about his next step and when he would inform Lazaro about john.

“one more thing, please write Lazaro in prison; i know he did a terrible thing, but he did it for the right reasons” sharon spoke softly before lightly sipping her tea.’

“I was just thinking the same thing right now, as you were briefing me” after he stood from his chair, slightly more sober than he had been earlier. “ i will tell him soon... and i’ll talk to soon” he said as he nodded and left the room.

Workers soul

I know its going to be a long week...
When the pay is at the end...
And the bottles are empty...
Just like the stomach...
Pushing through and grinding...
Is how things get done till the pay comes...
And what little is held in hand...
Goes to filling those bottles again...
To save the soul from grinding another week...

Brink

when you stand on the brink do you look back
at what you are or what you will be. just to
be another martyr would you stand for that,
I'd make you believe to fear it all just to
stand in defiance with nothing more then
what you have in your hand.
could anything be so twisted would you
care...
i wouldn't be nothing more. silence is what
got me here, my loud mouth makes me fight

YOU

There isn't a you...
There is no sacrafice...
There is no warm body holding me...
All the possiblities aren't there...
And in fantasy you are the only one...
To fill up this life with love...
Isn't from you from you...
Because this song is able about fighting alone...
And that's the way I've always understood it...
You can't forgive me for be cruel...
Because you are not real...
This is the sacrafice that there is...

when the pulse screams

i give up on you...
and i give up on every one...
there won't be a moment that says otherwise...
for all the faith that i have given...
it only seems the punchline to my life...
and in all the time that you've stolen...
i can't even pretend to say yes, yes...
to hearing you name...

Words after words

Sometimes when I close my eyes...
I wish the wnter wasn't so cold...
If summer wouldn't burn as much...
Life seems colder because of...

i have to yell it

times are always rough...
can you blame your fists...
for always hurting when your the one...
the one who's always trying to break something...
things aren't always so easy...
your lot maybe slighted but to be weak to give up...
and to blame your fists for being hungry...
what kind of man could you be...
if your too weak to look around...
you could be the only reason you wake up...
stand up to yourself a man...

Fuel

How much longer...
I don't have much more of the spark...
I'm lossing faith in everyone...
You have to wait to fall in...
Its not to be saved...
But to be thrilled by it...
What is it coming to...

Everyone's crisis

Everyone's crisis, pulling everyone out...
My boat takes on too much water...
Evrything always rocks around me...
I'm everyone's rock...
The rock that their feet stand...
If they knew or if they cared...
I could cut that all away...
Is it a crisis of conscience...
To want to breath without a weight...
I just want silence to sleep...
When I feel doubt...

hopeing for hallelujah

if god came down to speak to you...
you wouldn't believe...
just to keep your faith in modern world...
the only words that keep you safe...
are the words that you forget to respect...
and in the final days, all the time is spent is remembering...

between yes or no

for all the spots that were never covered...
is there a brief moment when they weren't just fillers...
could they be true and be more fulfilling...
after trying so hard or not trying at all...
things have to have a happy ending or conclusion...
purgatory isn't the only existence...

Masks

Try what you will...
Your character will always be you...
The masks that you wear...
Betray your truth...
Hidding your character...
Only loses yourself behand...
Multiple masks you live with...

Whispering walls

Entering whispering walls...
A time in life that burns...
If only silently...
The ending of this place...
Will come at someones peace...
Telling only the words about these walls...
Will bring tomorrow's question...
Into today...