A Tin Can in the Sky

Another tin can in the sky. I sure hope karma doesn’t strike now, but if it does I hope the world knows this. I don’t regret a single damn word I’ve said.

Bye bye Memphis and here I come Denver. Home.






Packing Dreams

Packing dreams into reality. Will they all fit? I flee a coast to see another coast and find the same visions at my door. How did you find my present, my not so forgotten past. You are like a gift within a gift, reminding me of my layers of humanity. And so I pack you now as I return home for you have become a second home. The terror of my mind.

I would give a year of my life for a single night of sleep.

-Opinionated Man

Terrorize Me

Terrorize me with your reality, the reality of my past. Cloaked in darkness you yank me from my bliss and shackle again my ankles to the past. Does this city beckon to me in the night or is it instead the call of vultures from above as the smell of carrion rises to greet them. I am the feast and they prey upon me at my weakest moment.

Who could fear the light as we sleep peacefully in the night. Innocence lost to a struggle within. I see their faces return with glee, demons of my past. Different colors but all the same shade, they share a commonality in their goal. I slay them until my arm grows weary and my strength of will begins to falter. There is no help in this world, a prison of my mind. And so I sit and await the next conjugal visit from myself. Prisoner 108.


Your face is going to get stuck that way

I make a facial expression that has literally caused a crease, wrinkle to form on my face. It is when I observe humans acting humanly and I wrinkle my face and try to pull both my lips to the side. It is hard to explain and I really don’t feel like horrifying everyone with a close up of my face. I just thought I’d let you all know it is true! Your face is going to get stuck that way…

This post really isn’t as random as it seems.



You sing a sweet song of sorrow and remind us the night is near. Sending your voice through forgotten windows, we rush to shutter out the reality of your voice. But it is too late. Caught by the clarity of the night, even those lost in their cups raise their heads a moment as if remembering a forgotten thought. Or is it a tune that haunts our minds as we walk memory’s path. How easily you cause my heart to flutter again… my sweet, sweet nightingale. I weep as I close the door to your memory.