Welcome.
You have just been give a direct order, a direct order, to rock the fuck out.
Rock out like you're six years old again and you just met santa. Rock out like the cats are clawing at eazy-e's face and it's the only way to stop them. Rock out like Tupac has risen and brought Biggie with him.
Rock out like it's the only thing keeping your skin from falling off.
Rock off like the sun is about to explode. rock out like the judge just dropped his drawers in court. rock out like you didn't kill that man, like you aren't sitting behind these bars. Rock out the way you will when you finally take those steps and are free from those walls.
Rock out like. . . chase hansen just gave you a hug.
Rock out like Tyler durden made you into one of his human sacrifices. Like Mr. Durden just took your license. Like Mr. Durden knows your name.
Rock out like John Lennon just Came back to play one last show, and he just dedicated it to you.
Rock out like you're in Shea stadium, and the Beatles have just taken the stage.
Rock out like you just flew. rock out like you can walk on water. Rock out like LL Cool J on stage.
Rock out like you're the first women president.
Rock out like you work in the world trade center, and it's September tenth, and you just lost your job.
Rock out like it's September eleventh, 2001, and you're sitting on the top floor of the south tower and the plane just hit and the room is filling up with smoke and the building is shaking and it starts to fall.
And it won't stop falling, and it's the last 5 seconds of your life.
Rock out like your pulling yourself from the rubble.
Rock out like you are NOT the one giving birth.
Rock out, BITCH.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Monday, September 26, 2011
There is nothing to be excited about EXCEPT!!! that we're all going to Hell.
It's not that I wanna die, It's just that I don't wanna live.
To be perfectly honest, I really don't know if I actually exist. If I'm real.
Am I alive? Is everything an illusion?
I don't really feel much. I don't feel hatred, I don't feel Love, I Don't feel happiness, or anything even remotely close to it.
I can't stand the feeling of others touching me.
I don't sleep much at night. I can't. Too many thoughts, I'm on the brink of insomnia.
Sometimes I find myself doing things, just to feel the pain of it. It seems as though pain is the only way I can remind myself that I'm here, that I'm real, That I actually do exist.
What's the point of living if I can't feel anything.
Why should I stay here if I can't be touched, can't be hugged, can't hold a hand, can't kiss, or be kissed. Can't make love, can't hold someone. Can't be held while I cry.
Is God alive?
What if God really is dead? What if the devil has taken over Gods kingdom, over his reign. I know that he has here. Just look around you. Look at you. Look at me, especially at me. We're all going to Hell.
Is life worth living?
No.
Whoever says it's worth it, has never felt the way I do.
Love always,
William R. Holden
To be perfectly honest, I really don't know if I actually exist. If I'm real.
Am I alive? Is everything an illusion?
I don't really feel much. I don't feel hatred, I don't feel Love, I Don't feel happiness, or anything even remotely close to it.
I can't stand the feeling of others touching me.
I don't sleep much at night. I can't. Too many thoughts, I'm on the brink of insomnia.
Sometimes I find myself doing things, just to feel the pain of it. It seems as though pain is the only way I can remind myself that I'm here, that I'm real, That I actually do exist.
What's the point of living if I can't feel anything.
Why should I stay here if I can't be touched, can't be hugged, can't hold a hand, can't kiss, or be kissed. Can't make love, can't hold someone. Can't be held while I cry.
Is God alive?
What if God really is dead? What if the devil has taken over Gods kingdom, over his reign. I know that he has here. Just look around you. Look at you. Look at me, especially at me. We're all going to Hell.
Is life worth living?
No.
Whoever says it's worth it, has never felt the way I do.
Love always,
William R. Holden
Friday, September 16, 2011
The surprise ending is that I die alone.
It's cold all the time, here in the fork. My eyes don't seem to focus anymore.
She left one week ago from today.
I walk up harminor boulevard, on my way home from my 9-5 desk job, stuck in a cube. I open the door to my 1200 square foot home that I owe my life on.
I bought it for us, so we would have a place to live. Together.
I walk through the dirty house, papers scattered, empty bottles of rum, vodka and beer lay around the floor. I hear the crunching of broken glass under my foot, it's our picture. The frame fell off the table after she slammed the door. It's a photo of just me and Her. I pick it up and hold it in front of me, starring. My eyes water. I fold up the picture and tuck it into my chest pocket. I loosen my tie as I check the messages. It's Emily, she just got back from a two year trip around the world.
I should have gone.
She is wondering if she can come over and visit, the last time I saw her, was at my wedding, two years ago. I delete it. Look out of the kitchen window, the garden is over grown, the corn is falling over, the tomatoes are dieing, the peaches are rotting, falling off the branches, birds are choking them down. The beans are dried. The beets have been devoured by some type of animal, rabbit, raccon, I don't care.
The birds are picking out the eyes of my scarecrow.
I walk to the bathroom, trip on my old guitar, broken strings, splintered wood. I remember when I use to play. I'd play small shows, but people seemed to enjoy it, i don't know why. I remember when I went on tour to release my first album, She tagged along. I remember when I went on tour for my second album. I asked her to marry me on that tour. . .
The bathroom smells, I don't care. I don't even wash my hands after I'm done.
I head back to the kitchen. Paper is everywhere. My writing. My SHIT. How did I ever think it could be published. I pick up the only manuscript that was ever accepted. The first one I ever submitted, I read the first line.
"It's cold all the time, here in the fork. My eyes don't seem to focus anymore."
BULLSHIT! How in Gods holy kingdom did someone publish that? How did I think someone would read that. I throw the failed novel across the room. I pick up a poem, "The whore on 39th" i tear it in half. I pick up another. "Welcome happiness" I crumble it up, and throw it. I pick up another manuscript, rejected, twelve times. I throw it at the television, i picked up for 40 bucks at a second hand store. I reach for my chest pocket, looking for a cigarette, I find the photo of us, from the day she said yes. She was wearing my jacket. I pick up my keys, drop them in the sink, my car is still broken. I loosen my tie a bit more, kick off my shoes. Grab the bottle of wine that we were supposed to share today, our anniversary. I pick up my wallet, seven dollars. I walk outside, standing on the front stairs, I take a drink. Pull off my socks, take off my tie. I step onto the grass, It doesn't feel as cold as it usually does. I walk the two and a half miles to the gas station. My last seven dollars on a pack of camels, turkish gold, or as we called them , turkish loves, turkish candy. it was our brand, it was our Cigarette.
There she is, With him.
The air, the sidewalk, my skin, has never felt as cold as it does now.
I walk alone, I sleep alone, I eat alone, I drink alone, I am with nothing but the memories of failed novels, poetry no one ever read, and an old broken guitar. I die alone, holding our photo in my hand. . .
She left one week ago from today.
I walk up harminor boulevard, on my way home from my 9-5 desk job, stuck in a cube. I open the door to my 1200 square foot home that I owe my life on.
I bought it for us, so we would have a place to live. Together.
I walk through the dirty house, papers scattered, empty bottles of rum, vodka and beer lay around the floor. I hear the crunching of broken glass under my foot, it's our picture. The frame fell off the table after she slammed the door. It's a photo of just me and Her. I pick it up and hold it in front of me, starring. My eyes water. I fold up the picture and tuck it into my chest pocket. I loosen my tie as I check the messages. It's Emily, she just got back from a two year trip around the world.
I should have gone.
She is wondering if she can come over and visit, the last time I saw her, was at my wedding, two years ago. I delete it. Look out of the kitchen window, the garden is over grown, the corn is falling over, the tomatoes are dieing, the peaches are rotting, falling off the branches, birds are choking them down. The beans are dried. The beets have been devoured by some type of animal, rabbit, raccon, I don't care.
The birds are picking out the eyes of my scarecrow.
I walk to the bathroom, trip on my old guitar, broken strings, splintered wood. I remember when I use to play. I'd play small shows, but people seemed to enjoy it, i don't know why. I remember when I went on tour to release my first album, She tagged along. I remember when I went on tour for my second album. I asked her to marry me on that tour. . .
The bathroom smells, I don't care. I don't even wash my hands after I'm done.
I head back to the kitchen. Paper is everywhere. My writing. My SHIT. How did I ever think it could be published. I pick up the only manuscript that was ever accepted. The first one I ever submitted, I read the first line.
"It's cold all the time, here in the fork. My eyes don't seem to focus anymore."
BULLSHIT! How in Gods holy kingdom did someone publish that? How did I think someone would read that. I throw the failed novel across the room. I pick up a poem, "The whore on 39th" i tear it in half. I pick up another. "Welcome happiness" I crumble it up, and throw it. I pick up another manuscript, rejected, twelve times. I throw it at the television, i picked up for 40 bucks at a second hand store. I reach for my chest pocket, looking for a cigarette, I find the photo of us, from the day she said yes. She was wearing my jacket. I pick up my keys, drop them in the sink, my car is still broken. I loosen my tie a bit more, kick off my shoes. Grab the bottle of wine that we were supposed to share today, our anniversary. I pick up my wallet, seven dollars. I walk outside, standing on the front stairs, I take a drink. Pull off my socks, take off my tie. I step onto the grass, It doesn't feel as cold as it usually does. I walk the two and a half miles to the gas station. My last seven dollars on a pack of camels, turkish gold, or as we called them , turkish loves, turkish candy. it was our brand, it was our Cigarette.
There she is, With him.
The air, the sidewalk, my skin, has never felt as cold as it does now.
I walk alone, I sleep alone, I eat alone, I drink alone, I am with nothing but the memories of failed novels, poetry no one ever read, and an old broken guitar. I die alone, holding our photo in my hand. . .
Friday, September 9, 2011
Stolen thoughts.
We were sitting in the grass next to the fire.
We were holding hands, knees touching.
You leaned over
kissed me
and asked,
"What goes on in your mind?
What are you thinking about,
right this second?"
You.
I'm thinking about you.
I'm thinking about you like plants think about the sun.
I'm thinking about you like wells think about water.
I'm thinking about you like bukowski thinks about poetry,
like a car thinks about gas,
like a cigarette thinks about being smoked.
I'm thinking about you.
You're wearing your clothes, all of them.
It's NEVER about sex,
when I'm thinking about you.
When I'm thinking about you the way my feet think about walking.
The way grass thinks about growing.
I'm thinking about you like water thinks about flowing,
like the stars think about glowing,
and dynamite thinks about exploding.
I'm thinking of you like the sun thinks about fire.
I'm thinking about you like R. Davis thinks about R. Frost.
I'm thinking about you like Joel Brown thinks about getting with a girl
who is also
in a wheelchair.
I'm thinking about you like Carlyn thinks about DYING.
I'm thinking about you.
I'm thinking about you like a noose thinks about
HANGING.
I'm thinking about you like a gun thinks about shooting.
Like a razor thinks about cutting,
and a needle thinks about veins.
I'm thinking about you like my PEN thinks about WRITING.
I'm thinking about you like pornography thinks about destroying your brain.
But You
are NOT
thinking
about me.
But I'm thinking about you.
I'm thinking about you like pages think about turning.
I'm thinking about YOU.
The way air thinks about lungs,
and the way your heart thinks about blood.
I'm thinking about you.
And You
STILL
aren't thinking
about
ME.
I'm thinking about you like a bottle thinks about getting broken.
I'm thinking about you like the fire thinks about Burning.
I'm thinking about you like my mind thinks about DOING.
and I wake up.
ALONE.
And I'm STILL thinking about you.
I AM STILL THINKING ABOUT YOU.
We were holding hands, knees touching.
You leaned over
kissed me
and asked,
"What goes on in your mind?
What are you thinking about,
right this second?"
You.
I'm thinking about you.
I'm thinking about you like plants think about the sun.
I'm thinking about you like wells think about water.
I'm thinking about you like bukowski thinks about poetry,
like a car thinks about gas,
like a cigarette thinks about being smoked.
I'm thinking about you.
You're wearing your clothes, all of them.
It's NEVER about sex,
when I'm thinking about you.
When I'm thinking about you the way my feet think about walking.
The way grass thinks about growing.
I'm thinking about you like water thinks about flowing,
like the stars think about glowing,
and dynamite thinks about exploding.
I'm thinking of you like the sun thinks about fire.
I'm thinking about you like R. Davis thinks about R. Frost.
I'm thinking about you like Joel Brown thinks about getting with a girl
who is also
in a wheelchair.
I'm thinking about you like Carlyn thinks about DYING.
I'm thinking about you.
I'm thinking about you like a noose thinks about
HANGING.
I'm thinking about you like a gun thinks about shooting.
Like a razor thinks about cutting,
and a needle thinks about veins.
I'm thinking about you like my PEN thinks about WRITING.
I'm thinking about you like pornography thinks about destroying your brain.
But You
are NOT
thinking
about me.
But I'm thinking about you.
I'm thinking about you like pages think about turning.
I'm thinking about YOU.
The way air thinks about lungs,
and the way your heart thinks about blood.
I'm thinking about you.
And You
STILL
aren't thinking
about
ME.
I'm thinking about you like a bottle thinks about getting broken.
I'm thinking about you like the fire thinks about Burning.
I'm thinking about you like my mind thinks about DOING.
and I wake up.
ALONE.
And I'm STILL thinking about you.
I AM STILL THINKING ABOUT YOU.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Love.
Love is a Book of poetry that no one will ever read.
Love is someone walking into your house without knocking.
Love is hell. Love is death. It's digging your grave with a rope tied around your neck.
Love IS a cheap whore
Love is the unseen universe.
Love is Religion.
Love is the fake smile you put on your filthy face
every goddamn day.
Love is a six inch nail.
Love is the center of the earth.
Love is the gallows.
Love is burning down your home.
Love is DEAD.
Love is someone walking into your house without knocking.
Love is hell. Love is death. It's digging your grave with a rope tied around your neck.
Love IS a cheap whore
Love is the unseen universe.
Love is Religion.
Love is the fake smile you put on your filthy face
every goddamn day.
Love is a six inch nail.
Love is the center of the earth.
Love is the gallows.
Love is burning down your home.
Love is DEAD.
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