All I am.

Just something I signed up on this website to post.

Nothing is ever very clear, Y’know what I mean? First you spend the first few years of your life learning to walk and talk and the rest of them learning to sit down and shut up. I always found that weird. And yeah, I did just make a reference to a silly kids’ book, sorry, can't help myself, I read it like 20 years ago and it's been burned into my memory ever since, a lot like the konami code; up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, b, a, start, and boom, unlimited lives. I'm getting a bit off track, I guess, but then again, I never really knew what or where the track was in the first place. Isn't that funny? Nah, guess not. Nothing really is these days. What with all the chaos, the death, the anger, rage, the hatred, it all kinda takes the fun out of it all.

I wish I could call myself a “tortured artist,” but all I am is just some guy with a fucked up life and laptop who knows how to type the s**t that goes through his mind. Now I've gone through some s**t in my life, never got to know my dad, went through my mother marrying another guy and divorcing him, her getting engaged to another guy, having two kids with him, then having him kick the bucket, countless attempts at suicide, two weeks in a mental, sorry, psychiatric hospital, 9 schools, an addictive personality that constantly messes with my head, and a really strong desire to take whatever will make me feel anything for even a little while. OK, I guess I am pretty tortured, but I’ll be damned if i'm an artist, like I said, laptop, typing, etcetera, etcetera.

I don't really know what it is that I'm typing, but as long as I've still got fingers, I'm gonna keep on slamming them onto these keys till they spit out something worth putting my name on. Wow, that sounded pretty arrogant. Well, to paraphrase Shakespeare, “f**k it.”

I've always been full of rage. My entire life has been disappointment after disappointment, yet I always somehow appeared to keep my head held high and a cocky grin on my face, but let me be the first to say, I'm nothing but a damn good actor, people like me have to be to survive. I don't know if I'm a psychopath or whatever, and frankly, I don't care. All I care about is my very own pursuit of happiness.

I don't think I'm crazy, but then again, there is a decent chance that I'm not typing this at all, but I'm really writing this all on the walls of some asylum in my own feces. That's the thing about crazy people, they don't believe that they’re crazy, they all just see the world through they eyes of, well, of a madman. And if I'm not crazy, I’d hate to see what real crazy looks like. Heh, kinda funny thinking about it.

I don't know if I'm a good person or not. I saved a bird once, if that means anything. I was taking a walk during a thunderstorm, and about halfway through, lightning struck and light up the sky for a brief moment, not long enough to get a look around, but long enough to see something on the ground in front of me, something alive. I thought it was a frog at first, but then I got a closer look. It was a baby bird. I'm guessing it fell out of it's nest or something, but it was too young to fly. It was just… lying there, in the middle of the road, with it's head tilted upwards, beak wide open, crying out. As I was looking at it, I saw a car coming. Right then it dawned on me that I had about 15 seconds to either pick the little bird up or to let him die, and I guess I picked the right choice, but I've never really been the best judge of that, now have I? It didn't hit me until the next day why I helped the little avian cheepling, and it hit me like a sack of bricks. I sympathized with it. A defenseless, weak creature, haphazardly cast off into a world where the odds of survival are stacked against it, too young to understand that it was going to die soon, and too naive to think that bad people existed. I… I guess I just didn't want it to end like I will; dead in the streets.

I don't know what you're thinking right now, but I’ll take a guess with something like, “none of this is follows any continuity, the hell, man?” Well, I guess there isn't a continuity for any of it to follow. I didn't know what I was writing before I started, hell, I still don't know what I'm writing. I guess in the end, all I am is just a guy with a lot of pain behind his eyes, some working fingers, and some s**t rattling around inside his brain. That's all I've ever been.

Now, out there, there's talent. There's people with stories to tell, paintings to paint, art to create, then there's me and the stuff I make. I don't make art, all I make is whatever happens to come out when I type, write, or draw. I won't pretend that I'm some deep, emotional well of pure art. I won't pretend that I'm an artist. I won't pretend that whatever I make is… well… good. All I am, all I've ever been, and all I’ll ever be, is an angry guy with a laptop, and a deep desire to feel something. THAT is all I am.

Reviews

[Leonine]

nice oxymoron out there, saved a bird from the streets, i see pain makes people blind but also a great personalities of their own. perhaps the thing you want to feel just might be hiding under your nose, that's also wired doesn't make sense isn't it..... anything that's a beautiful frustration out there

[Zaineb nisar]

perfect . correct rhyming would be much better

[Malare]

well, its not meant to rhyme, it's a story, not a poem, but thanks anyway!