i need to just write

i need to write as much as possible. especially today.

here's a line i'm thinking of saying to people today.
i'll bet you twenty bucks i won't find a single pothead in this city today.

here's a topic i want to make a full book out of, just to describe my feelings on this particular matter.

i am so alone. i get so lonely, and i see that no one cares. i'm plagued with constant fantasies about being seen by someone, being noticed, being touched, being appreciated, someone finding me interesting enough to sit and talk to for a while. random encounters with pleasant strangers who aren't just looking for the own pleasure. but i live day after boring fucking day, lonely, invisible to the female eye. the only people who seem to find me attractive lately are guys who don't even have the balls to be a guy, but they don't have the balls to lose their balls either, and i just can't be around those people, they are way to weak for me, they're like little lettuce plants under my bulldozer, i won't even feel a bump. why can't any women look at me anymore. how ugly have i become? i've been through all sorts of hell, i've lost a hundred pounds, i'm a father of two... and i'll never be seen again. i've pretty much given up on ever being touched by a random stranger. it's just not going to happen. even other crazy homeless people who might be 'out of it' enough to not care... they're all on the wrong drugs. i have posted messages all over the internet, trying to find unemployed, possibly homeless, single ladies, who are strictly pothead, don't do bad drugs, don't have guys drooling all over them. i know they exist out there. the type of woman who's damaged, submissive, because of being mistreated by men. the type of woman who would sit and listen to me for hours, and then finally say 'that is so awesome, of course i support that, i'll help in any way i can'. for someone to be inspired by me again. should i have a sticker or a tshirt that says 'i cannot inspire zombies'. i'm really confused with this whole issue. every other man on this planet has turned what could be a simple process centered around... not 'making friends', or 'making love', but a combination i consider 'making loves'. why do we limit ourselves so much, that when i get here and need a little affection, i can't find it even from crazy people on the street. not a five minute encounter involving the slightest bit of nudity. that's wrong in everyone's eyes, so i just shouldn't exist, and i'm never allowed to get any pleasure out of life, because you've enveloped yourself in a prison of 'keep it in your pants'. no one will ever know how invisible i feel. and if they think they know, and try to tell me in their own words... if they get close, they get a point. if they don't know how invisible i feel... well... yeah, what's the point of that, it'll never fucking happen. how invisible do i have to feel before anything fun happens. how ugly do i have to feel before i'm noticed again. what has happened to all those 'anonymous encounters' they talked about on fetlife and in those rumoured kinky movies. i wish i could make my own erotic videos if only to show people how different this could be. i'm so sick of living in this same mold of misery because of you and your fears. your unexplained paranoia about physical contact. the things you shove into the 'taboo' category without my permission. without any discussion whatsoever. you've shoved too much into that category. too much of my life. too much of my heart. and it will never matter to you. to undo all this damage, i have to untangle a lifetime worth of cords. and no one cares. i will never be touched again. i will never find another pothead who's caring enough to be a friend. why does you world have to be so fucking depressing, why are you so proud of it, so comfortable with it, so fearful of anything better, why do you impose your alienation onto me with a prison of excuses to never change. why. why must i live in your prison. i'm so sick of this shit.

i could pray to be seen today, to be noticed, to be touched by someone, to have a feminine presence notice me, to reflect in their eyes, to feel like more than just a two dimensional image. it's too much to ever ask. i have flesh. it hasn't been seen in two years. and no one's curious enough to come along and say 'hey, can i see... what you look like... under all that black?'. that will never happen. meanwhile, i walk past all these women, dying to be brave enough to whisper 'i'd give anything just to touch'. you won't stop seeing that as a felony, a criminal act, something to plaster across cnn, 'today some desperate man was trying to be seen by a woman out of his league/price range/pay grade/status bracket, so let's make fun of this loser and make him feel humiliated for being more human than us'.

i have this big hard rock pain in my stomach. it won't go away, it only gets worse. i figure it's from not getting to use a restroom often enough. i try to tell doctors, i've got a three month long snake in my ribs. they don't speak poetry, and i refuse to say their clinical, sterile, lifeless word. i have no one i can talk to. i never will.

not even the entire sexual topic i want to explore, i want to publish an entire book just on that aspect alone. how lonely i feel. i see sex happening all around me, i see it cheapened with products and purchases all day every day, i see sluts taking two guys into their motel rooms, and you think i don't know what you're doing. i'm sickened. i cringe with vile hatred, i shake, and i have to close my eyes. but i'm not even allowed to ask. forever peasant.

never pleasant.

what will become of this. what words might ever be written to correct this. how much effort will it take. will anyone change. will i be heard before i die. how soon will this pain in my stomach kill me. how much time do i have left. is this all pointless. should i have killed myself when i was twenty three, like i knew i should have. i've been denying it for so many years, but that pain in the back of my mind, direct connection to my heart, tells me the inevitable truth. yes. i should have left this world when i saw how sad it was. there's nothing i can do to fix it. i wonder every day, what will it take. i try to translate it in a new way to match the sunrise. i'm lost. i don't know what else to do.

is it really this sad. is there no end.

eternally the ugliest peasant.
never deserving of human eyes.
chained down by a million lies.

i've tried for years to think my way out of your prison. i'm in the land of attention central, and i'm still unseen.

sandra laughed at one of my lines in an email, and replied, 'you're in hotness central, revel in it'.

i'm sorry. i can't. i'm almost offended by that. does it not occur to you how much this could hurt. how much damage i've been through. i picture the next girl i'm with, has to come prepackaged with a chisel, and she'll always wonder why i shiver whenever she touches me. 'how bad have you been hurt', she asks. hunny, i can't even tell you. it's been too long, the story has been locked away for too long now, it's soaked in tears, i don't think you'll ever pull it out of there. don't even try, the past doesn't matter, all i can think about is a better future, but thanks to this stagnant world, it never fucking comes. i'm not even saving up for mine like you are.

all of you.
not a one of you can stand out from the rest.
none of you brave enough.
but you look down at me.
you frown at me.

none of you have even listened to the life of agony album, 'ugly'.

here's just a tiny glimpse of how close that album is to my heart. not that you'll ever care.

that album was released in nineteen ninety five. around the time i was twenty two, because i remember getting to listen to track two when i was around that age. yeah, i'm not giving it all to you, you can do your own research.

that album has twelve tracks. the last track is a cover song.

my wife left me just before her twenty second birthday.

my favourite songs are tracks one, two, four, six, and eleven. i.e.: seasons, lost at twenty two, other side of the river, the title track, and a short little song called 'fears', that's pretty much a screenshot of my life in your eyes. your tiny perspective of my invisible little world. and how little it matters to you.

'all i have are these clothes on my back, and this song'.

the two verses in the title track hit my heart the hardest. i see half my life in those lyrics. under a sea of tears.

here's my favourite little factoid about that album. the singer on that album, that incredibly sad voice you hear, that pummels into your heard, pestles a bed like a cat, and lays down to cry itself to sleep, that brutally beautiful voice, all the misery and tears in the world choking and stroking the words from that throat, that voice...

is now a woman.

that's right.

how's that for balls?

his name on that album was keith caputo, from brooklyn. now, she's mina caputo. she once covered the song 'why', by annie lennox. that song was also featured in the movie 'exit to eden'.

are you even beginning to see the pain yet? or will you forever remain blind to it?

you don't belong in my heart.

next to the life of agony shrine, and the machine head vault... there's just no room. i'm sorry, you'll have to sleep in the shed, and think of a reason i should let you stay.

the only people i can seem to find that i can ask for weed, are the people dragging their pants on the ground.

just to clue you in, here... those are my enemies. would you ever want to ask your enemies to borrow a coffee filter? a creature that repulses and disgusts you so much, you can't stand to look, and want to sew your eyes shut?

they're not the only reason i want to sew my eyes shut. all the soft, curvy flesh i'll never get to touch.

all those nights, through seattle, portland, san francisco... unsatisfying and pointless.

take one step into my misery, i'd like to see how fruitful your eyes become.

i cannot penetrate anyone's heart. no word will break that lock.

a man who died thousands of years ago, is still asking why. you won't even stop and listen for the faint echo of the voice. you've got more important things to do in your life. and how dare anyone call you selfish. why should you care.

the bulldozer should care about the obstacles. only the real bulldozer has the true heart.

but go ahead and keep thinking what you're thinking, cause you're right. you're always right. you own right, and we have to pay you for samples of it. you'll never know how wrong that is. your conscience is death.

you're just a messenger for misery. from whose mouth, i wonder.

do you feel as ugly as i do?

yeah, fuck no, you don't.

why don't you read my poem 'wristblood', and come back when it sparks a little passion in your heart.

some asshole just blinded me with his phone and the reflection of the sun, while dragging his fucking pants on the ground!!! when is that shit going to stop!!! when are you boys going to grow the fuck up and pull your fucking pants up!!! when are you going to realize how fucking stupid that looks!!! goddamnit!!!

i feel so ugly.

...
well, i was bound to have a nervous breakdown, should've seen it coming from miles away
packed my bags and started running, brain's been shaking since yesterday
there's only so far that you can run, boy, there's only so far to leave your problems behind
cause when your problem's yourself, you start thinking, no matter how far, you'll never leave it behind

now i'm twenty two with still no clue, of who i am, who i'm supposed to be
know that to you, it sounds funny, you've got it worked out like it's a fucking disease
started asking myself, do i fit in, where i belong, could this really be me?
been feelin' downright ugly, tell me, is this the way it's supposed to be?