Chemicals

Caffeine and nicotine
Driving me, fueling
My creative engines
And my ambitions
I pursue, but
Only half-heartedly,
Unless I'm giving myself cancer
Or clogging my arteries
With cigarettes and soda, respectively
Guess I'm not meant to be
Sober, clean, and free
Of chemicals, because I'm weak.
To stay calm, I need weed.
To stay up, coffee.
To stay sane, nicotine.
I get so anxious when I'm sober
Or when my high is over.
But I never told her,
My personality is addictive.
I'm scared I'll be a junky and vindictive
And manipulative
To get money to feed a habit
I feel I need
To keep going and to succeed.
These drugs I use to get these ideas out of my head,
Help my art, but I know I'll wind up dead.
For the sake of these ideas in my head,
I willfully, slowly make myself dead.

If the Law Says It's Okay, It's Okay

Let's smoke some K-2
What will it hurt? Shit's legal!
What a waste of 10 bucks
It doesn't do shit; here, smoke the rest later

Who's calling me at one in the morning?
Heather? Why is she calling?
What's wrong, Whoa, calm down!
You feel like your heart's about to explode?

Why is this happening?
I thought K-2 was okay; shit's legal!
I'm sorry I spent those 10 dollars
And gave that shit to you

The poison hotline says
You need to go the hospital
And if you don't call your parents
I'm calling 9-1-1

Who cares if they know,
And who cares about the bill?
You're dying, Heather!
You need to get help!

No sleep for me tonight
So no class in the morning
You'll go to jail for harmless pot
But the legal shit will kill you.

Cool as a Cucumber

Trying to be cool as a cucumber,
Winding up as lame as that line
"Girl, you're like the point of a pen, you're so fine"
I wink and act like I'm hot
From her reactions, it's clear that I'm not
So, like the dork I am, I continue
"Girl, don't run away, I miss you!"
Chasing this girl like a stalker
When I'm just trying to talk her
Into giving me a chance,
And going with me to the 8th grade dance.

Chasing the Dragon

The syringe fell from her hand and clattered upon the floor. Finally, the release she had searched so desperately for was found. She sighed, head tilted back, eyes fluttering. She once again entered that wonderful state between awake and slumber. No matter how hard she fought this need, she always sought this feeling out. She tried to face the world without heroin; she simply could not bare it. When she shot up, the life she lived, and all of its trials and pains, faded into the background. The bills that needed paying, the dead-end job she worked, the dingy efficiency apartment in which she lived; all of these torments, these stresses, these problems, they all became nothing more than background noise. At least for a few hours, she gets to escape it all. Heroin became her only solace in her world.
She began to sweat; her skin paled. Her breathing grew ever shallow. She convulsed as her awareness, her vision and consciousness of the world faded. She finally passed out, smiling a little from the numb feeling. Her breath came out ragged and shallow. Her skin, drenched in sweat, was still cold somehow. She ceased breathing. Her heart pulsed no more.
In a cradle in the corner of her apartment, a baby girl cried out for milk.

Such an Artist

I’m such an artist

You wouldn’t understand

I’m so much deeper

Than the average man

I’m such an artist

I’m mysterious, and stuff

I take deep pictures

Like this black and white of my butt

I’m such an artist

War and stuff is bad

Consumerism and conformity

Make me all sad :’(

I’m such an artist

…Dude, you got some pot?

Lemme get some, bro!

I don’t need a lot!

I’m such an artist

*tokes deep from bowl*

…Uh, what was I saying?

Fuck it, time for Doritos.

Truly Living

                After hours of sweating and hiking, after adding new, painful callouses to her already rough feet, she finally emerged from the woods, into the clearing.  She sighed, joyful and weary; she came just in time for the sun to shine perfectly on the flowers, making their reds, greens, blues, yellows, and purples stand out at their most brilliant.  She dropped her backpack; the grass, so soft, cushioned its fall to the point that it scarcely “thumped”. She flopped down immediately next to it, sighing again and smiling. Tired as she was, she still found the strength to roll around in the soft grass, among the seeming millions of flowers. The hike through the woods never was too bad; she always saw plenty of wildlife, and some critters even started coming up to her, albeit warily. They grew used to the weekly visits of the benevolent stranger, who always carried snacks.

                 But it was this clearing that made the weekly hike worth it. The heat, the sweat, the dirt, the pain in her feet never mattered whenever she came upon this clearing. It was this clearing which made the rest of the week bearable.  She always thanked Mother Nature for providing this escape from the drudges of life in the city.  She pitied her office co-workers, forever trapped in their cubicles, in their cars, in their cramped apartments. She sometimes wished she could share her wonderful world with that other one, but she knew the sanctity of the clearing would only be ruined by a bunch of slobs, and that eventually, some greedy man, seeing green, would pave it over and replace it with something the world needs much less of.

                She looked around at all the splendor.  The clearing, in reality, was just a tiny blot of color amidst a sea of green trees. She felt safe, a peaceful land in the middle of an ocean. At the same time, her insignificance, and the insignificance of the clearing, awed her; it seemed to her that the rest of the forest, the rest of Nature, waited hungrily to swallow her up, to consume the different colors, to devour the upstart clearing with its uniform trees.

                She plucked a flower, apologized to it for causing it such pain, sniffed, and placed it in her long, blonde hair.  She lay back down in the grass, smiled softly, and drifted to sleep, her serene smile still adorning her face.

                She awoke slowly at night time, underneath a starry, moonlit sky.  She yawned, stretched, and felt elation from seeing the stars.  The city lights killed all the stars in their section of sky, so the magnificence of all those millions of twinkling lights never was lost on her.  She rummaged quickly in her backpack for her trail mix and water.  The insects, frogs, and various other noises of the night provided a beautiful symphony as she munched a few handfuls of nuts, raisins, granola, and M&Ms.  Dinner and music, under a beautiful night sky; what most people only see in movies, she experienced weekly, in real life.

                The cool night air caressed her skin; it slowly, sensually washed over her, seduced her.  She never could resist the advances of Mother Nature, nor Her temptations; she peeled off her clothing, dropped to the ground the last of civilization’s brands.  The feeling of total freedom swelled within her breast, and made her giddy.  Laughing, she danced gleefully around the sleeping clearing.  She merrily bathed in the starlight; the night sky blanketed her, clothed her more fully, more securely than any polyester rag ever could.  To the music of the night, she danced, the night air her partner.  She reveled in the sensuous chills the air’s cool embrace gave her.  She danced and sang with the nocturnal creatures.  The chirping of crickets, the croaking of frogs, and the buzzing of cicadas provided the perfect accompaniment for her sweet, melodic voice.  She danced until the tortured muscles in her calves, thighs, abdomen begged her to stop, and she fell down, immediately fast asleep.  Her mind, her soul, unfettered by her tired body, continued to dance in her dreams, among the flowers, the stars, and the beat of her perfect world.

Everything Went Better Than Expected

His fingers positioned themselves rigidly at the keys, obedient soldiers at the ready, waiting for their incompetent commander to give the order to attack. The light of the black screen glared at him, daring him to make a move. It seemed very Clint Eastwood; instead of seeing the words he needed to fill the screen, he only saw Dirty Harry inquiring about luck. His editor's voice agitated him, though she called nine hours ago.

"Jack, we've been waiting two months for your follow-up, and you've had nothing; if you don't have anything by next month, we're dropping you" Click. Just one sentence, and she hung up. One sentence, but he couldn't get Sheena's wretched voice out of his head; her voice, like rusty nails scraping along a pane of glass, always irritated him. Her words, though, got to him worse than her voice; just like that, he saw and felt his world crashing in on him. One month? how could he possibly follow up a bestseller within a month? His career as a writer teetered on the verge of collapse, and he only just begun.

He felt now the sweat that ran down his forehead while he thought about Sheena's ultimatum, and his inability to write. The walls were steadily closing in on him. Writer's block hit him at the peak of his success, and now, two months later, it still held his fingers from typing, still restrained his mind from creating.

He could remember a story he read about Kurt Vonnegut. When Kurt was a writer for a sports magazine, he was assigned to write a story of a horse at a race jumping over a fence. Kurt had stared for hours at a blank piece of paper in his typewriter, before finally writing, "The horse jumped over the fucking fence" Jack laughed loudly at his desk, his cackles bouncing across the walls of the spacious apartment he may no longer be able to afford. Inspiration took him suddenly, hit him in the gut, completely knocked writer's block the fuck out. Kurt Vonnegut, the man who inspired to Jck to become a writer, now inspired him again to write what he felt, he knew, would be his next hit, possibly his magnum opus.

Jack lunged forward violently and attacked his keyboard, battering the keys with the rapid strokes of a madman. His stiff back cracked in protest of the sudden movement, but he ignored the pain and possible dislocation of vertebrae; after this book sells, he'll get the best, most expensive chiropractor in the Western Hemisphere. His fingers flew violently over the keys, churning out word after word, as if they were inmates released from prison and let loose at the Playboy Mansion. His mind, first completely devoid of any creativity, now overloaded him with words and ideas. He felt as if his skull was simply bursting with literary gold; the next great American novel was practically spilling from his ears.

He typed without any pause, except to fulfill basic bodily functions such as the need to geat, urinate, and smoke pot (you know, for inspiration). For three days, he sat at his desk and simply typed. His cell buzzed every now and then, but it went totally ignored. The doorbell rang, but its chime fell on the deaf ears of a man in the middle of creating his masterpiece. He worked feverishly until finally, he got to the end. He stared in wonderment at his once blank screen, now filled with words whcih will change people's lives; more importantly, Jack knew those words will make him a very, very rich man. He already could envision the party he would soon throw, could already see the piles of cocaine which would litter his apartment, the beautiful women roaming around topless, and all the coolest people pretending to be his friend so they could snort the coke and fuck the women. He saw no point in even reading over his work; he knew in his soul that each and every word written was a diamond, fresh from some desolate mine in Somalia. With the swagger of a man already mentally spending his millions, alreay accepting numerous literary awards, he picked up his cell and called Sheena, that raspy bitch of an editor.

"Jack! I've been trying to call you the past few days..."

"Shut up and listen" Jack interrupted. He could feel her glaring at his command; Sheena wasn't the kind of woman whom you told what to do. "I finished it"

"But," Sheena said slowly after a short, confused pause, "you said you didn't have anything...at all..."

"I'll be by tomorrow at two" Jack replied and hung up, not wanting to talk any longer; he also wanted to mess with Sheena, make her expect a a load of crap, so her mind would be even more blown when she reads over the next million-dollar book for her company. He checked the ink and paper in his printer; just enough to print. He hit "print", leaned back, and smiled at the satisfying sound of his fortune being made.

He awoke the next day at two-thirty. Already late, he yawned, stretched, and slowly checked his cell. Fourteen calls and voicemails, and thirty-two texts. He felt Sheena's anxiety, the anxiety of anyone in business potentially losing money. The knowledge that he made her worry, made her freakout, brought a big, dumb grin to his face. Nothing he loved more than making suits squirm; what's the point in any creative career if you can't find joy in fucking with business-types? Jack knew Sheena's sour mood would dissipate the second she took a gander at his million dollar book. So, why not take his time getting there?

After a hot shower, leisurely wank, cereal, and a couple of joints, Jack finally put on his shoes, picked up his manuscript, and left. Rather than take his car, he decided today to walk. It was such a nice day out: the sun was shining, a breeze was blowing, and dammit, he deserved to enjoy life now, seeing as he soon would be laying around his apartmen in a drunken, coked-up stupor, with possibly an STI festering on his genitals. Then there was the rehab stint which would have to happen, the inevitable relapse...he couldn't stop fantasizing about his future rockstar lifestyle.

Finally, he arrived at the outside of his publisher's building. He made his way towards the elevator, stopped, examined his stomach, and decided to get some exercise by taking the stairs. After climbing the six flights to Sheena's office, he stopped for a quick breather, checking his watch. "4:17" the glowing face read. This information made Jack laugh, mostly because he was stoned, but also because he knew Sheena was paused. He stepped into her office.

"Jack!" Sheena screamed, inches from his face, spittle flying as she vocally released two hours and seventeen minutes of pent-up rage. "What the fuck is wrong with you, showing up so fucking late, stoned as Hell, what are you doing, why are you such an immature prick, and why are you wearing that stupid fucking grin!" Her voice, already usually raspy, now made Jack wince as it tore through his eardrums. He just smiled, sat behind her desk, and plopped the manuscript on the desk. Sheena dashed for it, greedy hands eagerly snatching up what she hoped would be a best-seller. Jack continued beaming as she hastily read through it.

At first, Sheena's eagerness filled Jack with an even bigger sense of having written something important. However, within a few pages, Sheena slowed down, her countenance fell, and Jack felt his stomach drop to his feet. She slowly handed the manuscript back to him.

"What's the matter?" he rushed the words, wanting an answer immediately. She simply motioned for him to read it, and so he did for the first time.

"Listen," the story began, "Billy Pilgrim has become unstuck in time" Jack stared disbelievingly at what his own two hands had written. He kept reading, hoping it was just a fluke, but it wasn't. He hadn't written a story influenced by Kurt Vonnegut, but instead had simply copied "Slaughterhouse Five" word for word. After the shock of this realization wore off, he fell to his knees, blubbering, snot and tears running down his face. Sheena stared at him in both disgust and confusion. She slowly patted his back, not entirely sure of what to do; she never was able to understand other people's emotions, and never knew what to do in these situations.

"Um, there-there" she said slowly. "It's not that bad"

"Not that bad!" Jack sobbed and blew his nose, which disgusted Sheena even further. "My 'masterpiece' is blatant copyright infringement!"

"Oh, relax!" Sheena thumped his nose, which bewildered him, and shut him up. "People do this all the time in this business! 'Slaughterhouse Five' was a big hit, so we'll just reword your manuscript and pretend it's original! We'll all be rich, still! Problem solved!"

"Really?" Jack looked up at her, red-eyed, snot still running. "Will I really be able to have a big cocaine party in celebration?" his voice quivered with hope.

"Kid, you got a lot to learn about this business of selling 'art'" Sheena fake-smiled at him. "You're gonna be able to afford all the coke you can snort!" Jack grinned now, ecstatic that what he and all his hippy friends said about publishers being greedy fucks who don't care at all about art was true. Sheena took back the manuscript, and Jack skipped merrily out of the office. Everything went better than expected.