I have no comment on the following entry and I dont care if you do either.

2am August 22nd 2006:
I began to write a poem, just a little freewrite.

?When all the houses on the innocent cul-de-sac aligned in little sex-driven rows, and
When all the ?cosmic? beings dropped their clothepins and began draining and dryhumping the cement, and?

2:15am August 22nd 2006:

Josh called me and we talked as I couldn?t think of anything to say in my poem.

3am August 22nd 2006:
I continued to talk to him and he told me that he just had 22 shots of vodka, it was inspiration, I went back to the piece:

?When the baby sisters quickly turned their My Little Pony hairbrushes into fireworks of heroin shooting into the chaste sky, and
When the little static bits of conversation that always went under my head suddenly lost themselves into the daily flattering flash flood of compliments??

3:20am August 22nd 2006:
I push the button, I disconnect, and I cant think of anything else to say in the poem, ?I?m just out of inspiration? I think. I get ready for bed.

3:30am August 22nd 2006:

I sit awake as the down comforter gets heavier and heavier on my hands and chest and I think about how fucking close me and Josh have become, really, he?s the only way I ever lived. When I put Ian in a coma, he was there; when we got arrested; when I smoked weed for the first time and he taught me how to be aware; when I first passed out on the lawn and he called the ambulance; when I first hooked up with a chick and he was the one who set us up; when we stole and when we waited for the bells to be over at Church so we could hear the hymns; when we listed the hottest people in the world just so we?d have some porn names to look up later that night; when we went 160mph on 217; All the times I truly lived, he was there.

And I think, at the push of a button I disconnected, and I knew he was finished talking but he was drunk out of his mind in sunriver and I didn?t feel like listening to his drivel of how he saw a ghost in the attic. Besides, I had a piece of writing to finish, it had been 7 days since my last posted on UG so I had to post something. I went to sleep, thinking I?d finish and polish the piece in the morning.

7am August 22nd 2006:
Mark just called me saying Josh?s mother just called him. Josh is dead; suicide; jumped off the attic, no note, no love, no conscious, just a tasteless sense in my mouth that began to beat my brain.
And I began to beat my face and eyes as bloody tears came down my face as I hit, and I hit and I hit and I beat the shit outt of myself, and with blurry dying sight and tone I realized what the sense was?
I killed him, I fucking killed him, I killed everyone, so i wrote this for no fucking reason but contained emotion?.

But theres no point to fucking writing if inspiration is death and slit throats and fractured skulls are just broken tears of friendship that come across as halfassed images over an internet forum where your hoping to impress and squezze just one bullshit reply that will make you smile gently knowing that someone who doesn?t matter or care about anything your going through says gj.

Poetry is dead, I killed it. Josh is dead, I killed him. And whats past death, what can I hug and hold to my heart? Just fucking lines and words on a page and a false crit to some guy I?ll never meet. Poetry is dead, I killed it. And I fucking hope some guy who fucking hates life fucking finds this relatable and some other guys who hate trends bash these hopeless tears I?m shedding. Come get me, I?m the killer of poetry, all writing is dead, and all that?s left are words.

2am March 14th 2006:
Tonight Ian Bonaparte collapsed on my floor after overdosing on alchohol and while the meds rushed him off to the hospital and his mother cried while she got into the car, me and josh ran down the blurred street screaming that we loved him and that we were sorry.

"I love you Josh, and I loved you, and now your nothing but words."

I don't know if what is there was real, but it certainly seemed like it, because I haven't seen that much raw ***tion from you for a long time.

And because of that, it's not really crit-worthy, because who gives a f*ck about metaphor if you're just venting your feelings? I don't.

Strong, strong stuff. I prefer reading strong ***tion to pretty words, even if it has come under hard circumstances.


EDIT: I see the word emo has been filtered out. Who the hell makes these rules up?
Yes, yes, fucking yes. Fuck poetry.
If this is true, then it's very sad. I guess I hope it's not true, but if it is, at least it's true.
This is the kind of thing I've been aching to write or at least see written.
So forgive me if I say "gj".

"I sit awake as the down comforter gets heavier and heavier on my hands and chest"
It's apt. It's very apt.

I hope you'll also forgive me if I say I think I can relate to this piece. Read my sig. I think it can be read as pretty congruent with all of this.

Whoever filtered emo needs their face hurt.
suffice to say, I'm taking a little break from S&L and I dont know how long it will be.

And from going to winning WOTM to now I realize that all I wrote was bull**** in a pretty way, it was all bull****, and I wrote it cause it reminded me of some dead guy we read about in English class that I aspired to be like. Life kills imitation and I killed poetry for myself. And I mean every word I have said in this thread.
Either way, I thought the piece was intense and spine tingling. I would've rather read this for English Lit than Macbeth... Macbeth was easy... This is beyond Macbeth... It's like... Macbeth ten times worse. A big Wow to you and your piece here. Keep up with the great writing!
Ahh, if I had a dollar for every time I felt the same emotions of this piece and even the emotion reflected by the title, I would have at least 3 or 4 dollars. What can I say other than this is a quite brilliant piece of writing.
This moved me so much that I am at a loss for words. Seriously.
Run, Run Farmer. Screaming! Bloody Murder
The daughters of question have been murdered!
Murdered! Murdered!
.. dunno what to say sir.

"Success is as dangerous as failure. Hope is as hollow as fear." - from Tao Te Ching

I have an itchy throat, i havent moved for 10 minutes and im shaking. that's one of the best peices of writing ive come across in my life.

amazing work.
Hey Dylan, guess what? It isn't your fault.

You DIDN'T do it.

I know it might feel like you did, but you'll soon figure out that you had nothing to do with it, and, probably, you could have done nothing to stop it. He could've told you on the phone what he was thinking, but he didn't. This is no disrespect to his memory, this is out of respect to you.

Yes, maybe everything you wrote was fake to imitate someone, so reinvent yourself. You always defended your writing though, you said yourself that the words you used in poetry were ones you used every day. Was that a lie? If it is, by all means re-invent your style.

You could be the difference towards someone through writing. You could save another Josh out there.

Think about it, and I'm not asking you to come back.
much James, seriously, it means alot.

I'm more or less over it though... kinda... went to the beach for a week with some other friends and got to cleanse my brain and such... on second thought, I'm not over it, but I'm coping, which is good... o, and I didnt actually quit writing, I'm sorry the title lied. you guys are gonna have to put up with more of my ****, sorry.