Finally

Ready to die 

Too heavy to cry 

Aspire for nice wings 

So I can steadily fly. 

Sick of interpretations

Sick of your perfect hatred 

Sick of you workin late and

Feeling like I’ve been taking 

All of this love for granted 

Sick of this fucking planet 

Really I can’t stand it. 

Really I’m just a phantom 

A shadow of a former self 

That wasn’t even whole 

It’s been ten years 

Of me searching for my soul 

At the hands of the unfinished 

hands of the broken 

So I’m alone w a mac, maschine, and a Roland. 

And I dream of just floating 

I think we’re just hopeless 

Drink somethin potent

Hoping you notice 

My self destructive tendencies 

Looking outside for the inside enemy. 

All the things you said to me 

I let it rest in peace 

God descend from the heavenly 

Been on some fucked shit 

Since I was seventeen 

When I told you the truth 

You told me you’d never leave. 

But what a load of crock

Wow I’m so shocked 

Now I need to stop 

Chilling on the block 

Stay workin in my room 

Until I finally get my shot. 

The Shaman

Want to know something about the Shaman? 

He’s not Jesus. He’s just a guy who stumbled by accident upon the waters of eternal life. 

Making pie is not about immortality. 

It is about leaving his burdens behind. 

Getting out of his mind. 

Away from himself. 

From his sins.

His memories. 

His past. 

But his past isn’t going anywhere. 

It’s as present as the noon day sun hanging over the Pacific. 

He wakes up and faces it every morning. 

It’s his cross to bear. 

And Anna has not come to set him free, 

Nor has he come to enlighten her. 

Of this we can be certain: 

The two have things to learn from each other. 

For they are more alike than either know. 

Butterflies don’t fly on the moon

Sometimes 
I wish 
I could be 
A butterfly 
Flying by 
Flying high 
Sometimes 
I have 
Visions of suicide 
Take me away 
Help me erase.
-Raury
What else is there to say of this world? It could be said that Italians do not eat peanut butter, that love is not what we think it is, that sex and music are humans’ two greatest languages, that blackberries have no qualms with blueberries, and spider wasps provide great metaphors. 
It could be said that magic is real, that a girl with loose auburn curls and the smile of a child could easily arouse it in your life, but that it takes considerable effort and intention to arouse it within yourself. 
It could be said that a cherry pie knows everyone’s deepest secrets and still has room left for filling, or that hamsters — given the right diet — could make an entire island invisible. 
It could be said that the Shaman is actually the second coming of Jesus. But it could also be said that he’s a lunatic with a weird grin and a past too sad for movies. 
It could be said that a caterpillar must become soup before transforming into a butterfly, that disrupting the process could ruin everything. 
It could be said that she is happy, and fulfilled, and that you have no idea what’s real anymore. 
It could be said that the wheel is finally grinding to a halt, and that something else is there winking at you.
It could be said that I am not a writer at all, but an animated clump of flesh that will one day make a great dinner for a family of worms. And that any attempt I make to articulate the seering mystery of things is about as useful as a carton of old milk. It’s not going to do you any good for me to tell you how to live your life. 
I was a child once. 
With dreams. 
Big nebulous dreams 
Some of them nightmares. And that child has grown into a tangled mess of paradoxes. She’s basically a box of Christmas lights wrapped in garden hoses. She’s basically the human version of an alien. Her curls have been known to pick up radio transmissions from space, and every one of them sounds like Don Knotts playing the washboard. 
Zero is more of a number then ten will ever be.
Twin flames are real but that doesn’t matter much at all.
Sometimes angels will tell you important things but you’re addicted to your cell phone so you’ll miss most of it. 
Sometimes you write in the second person when referring to yourself. 
Sometimes 
I wish
          I could be 
                            A
                                   Butterfly. 

Unraveling. 

To me this is a matter of unraveling. I have in my life been made a bundle of paradoxes and unconscious impulses. To sift through and untangle them is to unravel my stuckness — to manifest what I feel to be an immense potential at the core of my being; potential for what I do not know. But I know it is there, waiting for me to figure it out — to unravel completely.