The Sock-Monkey As Alone

                                           I look at the charlie brown Christmas tree. It sits with a coyote skull under its lonesome red bulb. The small branch bends towards the skull. The little box of a table that holds all this mystery sits between two bookshelves: organized in their dissonance.   I have felt alone for so long, unsure of what my place in this thing called life would be. Unsure if I had stepped in the universe's punchline.   I used to pace and chain smoke. Nicotine and delusions reek of nostalgia.   I have paranoid schizophrenia, OCD, Social Anxiety, and severe depression.   I had gotten so depressed that most of my jokes are about me being a disappointment. No one makes me feel that way but myself, It can be disheartening.   This year I am ready for the season. Saving up to buy my niece a guitar. Saving up to share that ever-elusive quality of "goodwill towards men".   But why does my heartache? Why am I so resistant to the ide

Though in heaven shared so sad, so sweet. Through the schemes that have found the belief "If we can not be loved is found defeat". Collapse into our home like some thief   that is wrong in the truth. you cared with love. A knife inside your hand is music, sick. Wear beauty was broken by the sun. Blood is being drained by a lonesome tick   Laying down with a kind of mistake. Words I cry but so like a monsoon. The fever will never fade or break with bandit eyes like a drunken raccoon.   Odin is here "what is the cost of wisdom?" his voice is calm, a sword-killing kingdom...  

  Esper-Panic Or, Mushi Yoroi VS the star tribe cyborgs. The setting sun is lowering under the horizon. The consumption and reductive darkness swallow all light. The stars just starting to show through. Between the orange and blue that is dissolving into black. It would be night in only a moment, past the darker stage of twilight and into the night. Moonpie is walking around the room her pale skin is a reflection of the preceding dusk in its shadows. These are the frail hours, the hours that precede sleep. The hours of peaceful rest for those in the grave. The hours where life is rekindled and snuffed out. A candle frail being lit with the BIC lighter in her hands. She is alive though, in the twilight times. She is alive despite the state of the world. Despite the repetitious death consuming humanity to a night where the stars only returned because we are on the exit ramp. Johnny Appleseed has his slicked-back bleach-blond hair falling in irregular spikes. Black coveralls, an old Hon

  "If anyone asks you what kind of music you play, tell him 'pop.' Don't tell him 'rock 'n' roll' or they won't even let you in the hotel." -- Buddy Holly     Call me Nala Alexios. Some say I am not well. Some say I live inside of my head. Though all I chase is the lost homeland Lemuria. The psychic world of the human soul. The inner contitnent of the occolt.   I have some distant blood with the Lemurians (I know what you're thinking but please give me patience.) and have inherited some lite abilities of my fellow espers.   This project I am starting is simple in its scheme. To reveal my people to the world by channeling their psychic energy. Then document the visions they project through the Aether (the most powerful of unreal substances) onto the page.   Though the language they use is alien to us. Its symbolic power is eternal. Though I may have to interpret, the intent is true! I feel my sisters and brothers out