I am not the sum of my parts.
I am not just limbs, glued together,
with basic motor skills and the ability
to differentiate right from wrong.
I am not just a kid, or a boy, or a man,
or a New Yorker, or a thug, or a poet,
or a consumer, or a statistic,
or an artist, or a worker, or a jock,
or a writer. Nor am I Fotis.
I am whichever way my heart wishes to beat.
I am whichever way my mind wishes to think,
I am however my eyes choose to see and
my hair decides to fall on any given day;
I am the actions I take out of pure anger, rage,
love, or passion and the doubts I have when
I have finally been calmed down.
I am a microcosm of the beauty that surrounds me,
the epitomized entity of all that is good in the world.
Or, better yet, chooses to be good.
Evil is in my blood, which is why I bleed.
Labels are for products.
You cannot itemize my existence.
It was my
Until I took it upon myself
To raise the armrests on
Either side of my seat to
Make it a throne. And now
It is my
iwanto SCREEEAAAAAM athetopofmylungs
but I know that God doesn't want to hear that...
What a joke. (please don't smite me)
I mean, aren't contradictions the basis of our lives? We... we speak about peace, yet we try to achieve it through forceful means. We speak about saving the environment and all that shit when in reality our very existence is denting the cause. The fact of the matter is we shouldn't exist; we have overstayed our welcome OVERSTAYED OUR WELCOME and have somehow found a way to destroy everything in our paths while having the AUDACITY the pure audacity, the balls, to deny any wrongdoing. WHAT?!
How can we wake up every morning
I'll tell you how
too scared to die.
Look I'm not going to stand on this soapbox and preach to you forever because frankly I KNOW YOU AREN'T LISTENING *chuckle anyways IS ANYBODY FUCKING LISTENING TO ME (sorry God). Look at you walking by me like I'm some crazy man. Like you've never ever before in your life thought of the things I say; the only difference between you and me is that when you wake up from a miserable nights sleep, groggy and disoriented, you put on your suit and walk out the door ready to pull down your pants and bend over for society. Me? I wake up, grab myself a milk carton, find the most crowded street in the city, and I SPEAK MY WORD. I try to DENT the frame that this world has built around your mind because I AM WITH YOU. I feel the pain you try and hide, I suffer for every day that passes in which you continue to choose conformity over freedom.
and yet... you still walk by.
And I'm still crazy.
The only solace I get is that when a gun yes a gun is pointed to my head I can smile and say I deserve to die because I have thought my life and your life and our lives through a hundred times over and I have realized that there is nothing I can do to save them from all that surrounds us. But if I were to take that gun yes the gun and point it at your face HOW MANY TEARS WOULD YOU SHED?!?! why aren't you ready to die? because of the estimate you need to get in to the client the next day? because of the cheating wife you aren't done loving or the spoiled children you aren't done protecting? because of the life you aren't done living? well answer me this: WHEN WILL YOU START LIVING IT?!
You make me sick.
I fell in love, once.
With a broken heart…
It had fallen through the cracks
Of my stone-faced façade,
And managed to find
The bloody, fleshy companion
She had chased for so long.
And when her heart touched mine,
For my heart, fleshy and red,
Gave his life to the cold,
Hard heart that captured
And so my heart grew cold,
As I gave everything to make
Her heart new.
I loved ever crack it had.
I loved every break in its perfection.
I longed to mend that broken heart,
So as to make it mine forever.
Now that that heart is gone,
My heart has become the cold,
That you seem to love.
I heard her say...
and I swallowed my heart.
My mouth was dry, so the delicate skins
grafted against each other.
It still had a beat to it, dull though it was,
as it trekked through my trachea;
it was a tight fit...
And it hurt, and it burned.
And then, when it finally fell into my stomach,
my tiny stomach, ruined from heartbreak,
The dangerously acidic acid of my bowels,
devoured my heart.
And it stopped beating, as it was torn
into infinitesimally tiny pieces.
And all these little pieces morbidly converged,
on the despairing, disparaging road
of my small intestine.
And as my heart, in all of its tiny pieces,
traveled down this road, it found a haven;
it found a tiny, vacant, apartment.
And my heart, it went to hide from me
in this haven. And it came together again;
it fell in love with itself and this love melted my heart.
And then it hated itself, and this love turned my heart
to stone, making it whole again.
And as it became whole, this haven
could not contain it.
And it expanded, more and more,
until it finally
And out with my heart, came
the silent residence;
came the landlord.
And it burned my body,
it burned my body, and I cried.
For my heart, even though I had cut it out
and swallowed it whole,
had still found a way to hurt me.
Dear God, it's me, the one you lost,
the boy one step behind.
Dear God, it's me, freezing in frost,
for it seems you have lost my mind.
Dear God, I can hear, all of them,
as they scream for remorse;
Dear God, these voices in my head,
and you alone know their discourse.
Dear God, I beg you, help me bleed,
from the brain instead of heart,
Dear God, I would rather take your heed
as a whole than as a part.
Dear God, Dear God, Oh God, my Lord,
what am I to do,
Dear God, Dear God, Oh God, my Lord,
when I cannot find you?
I was told that you have been
everywhere and back,
so I looked in all of nature's kin,
and have yet to spot your track.
I know that you can hear me, Lord,
I know this to be true.
So when you stop ignoring me,
please tell me what to do.
You know who.
I love the smell of your hair.
I love the passion with which you call my name.
I love your eyes, whether they are
Loving, or questioning, or patient.
I love the way the wind molds to your form,
and the Sun glows all around you.
I love the way that God understood exactly what I wanted
and found you, the perfect specimen,
to stand by my side.
I love the way that our souls play,
like sparks, speeding, crashing into each other,
giggling all the while, all when we look
into each other’s eyes.
I love the way that you can make me smile
at inanimate objects,
whether it be a computer screen
or a cell phone, and
I love the way I always wish
I was smiling right at you instead.
I love that when you’re gone,
the stars refuse to shine as bright,
And the Moon ceases to see beauty,
As the Sun, hopeless, goes to bed early.
I love the way a bird can love its freedom.
I love the way a flower can love the rain.
I love the way that only I can love you.
I hate you.
I have signed my resignation
from your voluptuous ways.
You have influenced me past repair.
You have taken the expansive horizon
that is characterized by my thoughts,
and crudely focused it
on one ray of light.
You meant this ray of light to be
my ray of hope;
instead, it is the reason
for all of my indemnities.
You have destroyed
a productive and potentially valuable
pawn to a flawed society.
You have destroyed my dreams.
Thus, in me you have created
a vendetta for my corpse,
that now lays bloodied
in your devious hands.
got this idea after reading "I Had a Heart Once" by Metaphorest. original idea, just inspired by the monologue. enjoy.
Scene opens with Frank, younger man with eyes that tell us that he has seen more than he should have in his time. He sits on a solitary chair in the center of a room with few furniture arrangements. His hair falls in his face as he speaks, so he is constantly brushing it back. His glasses are always sliding off of his nose, so he is constantly pushing them back. In his hand he holds a clock. He is speaking to himself. His voice is hoarse and low.
Frank: Why won't this damn thing shut off...
Frank lets out a long sigh, as if it were a breath he had been holding in for years. He gingerly places the clock on the floor next to his feet after finally shutting it off.
Frank: For years. For years now, its been making that same damn noise. I mean, I know its 'sposed to, but still. Really? It's unbelievable. I... ugh whatever. I'll ignore it, as I always do.
Goes to change subject but instead changes mind, anger getting the best of him. Seems very flustered, with a touch of anger.
Frank: For as long as I can remember that same, consistent, persistent, resistant ticking has been gnawing at my mind... destroying it. I want to know what it's like, to be normal again.
Frank lets out another sigh. His eyes tear, not out of sadness but out of despair. Voice begins to falter and shake.
Frank: It's pathetic, really. I can't live anymore. My breathing has become labored, yet I haven't smoked a cigarette since 2001. My heart... well, the remains of it; it can't feel anymore. I've demoted myself from loving a woman to not knowing the emotion at all. Why?
He chuckles, looks down at the floor in front of him as he contemplates a decision he made years ago.
Frank: I feel like I have developed a sense of Masochism. Pain is what I deserve, for I am alive. Using the term loosely, of course, because some would argue that I am not even living anymore. As I would argue. No one deserves happiness or pleasure of any kind...
He leans in closer to the camera, starts an argument. Hand motions galore.
Frank: Yah see, Man was not meant to be happy. Not since Adam did the stupidest possible shit he could back in the day. This whole sin idea... it's true. It's true! Man is evil. We are born with hearts as black as coal, every one of us. So why should I be allowed to experience happiness or pleasure or success or love... I have been made from the same pile of dirt as Adam. I deserve nothing... Life is a joke we are all a part of, and like puppets we're made to live it.
Tear falls from Frank's eyes. His teeth are clenched tight. His lip quivers for a moment. He gently sways back and forth, his head in his hands.
Frank: I am nothing anymore. I am nothing. I am nothing. I am nothing. I'M NOTHING! I loved, at one point in time. I was happy, I was peaceful. But I threw around my heart as if it were made of stone, not knowing that it was glass all along. And shattered glass cannot be put back together... and now I'm nothing but a soul under some skin. But what is a soul good for if you have no heart to miss it? What am I good for... I can't even die.
Screen goes black, then opens to a first person perspective of Frank. Landscape in front, camera looks down at body, which is at the edge of a cliff. Camera sways gently, as if from vertigo. Labored breathing. Frank steps off the cliff, screen goes black.
Frank: (whispering) I can't even die.
-The New-Age Thinker
He sits alone, his distant frame nothing but a shadow sinking away into the blackness.
The only movement is that of his chest.
Up. Down. Up. Down.
Long, spread out breaths that seem to relax his slumbering soul.
His outline seems shaggy, and the moon that illuminates him makes his stature seem all the more vivid.
His outline is tall and narrow.
He raises one of his thin arms out towards the sky,
Out towards dreams.
He pushes his head back against the willow tree, arching his back as he attempts to have a look at the lingering, luminescent stars..
He falls back down into a slump. As his arm falls his hand wraps around something round and cold.
He grabs it and throws it straight up at the branches that block his view.
The stone harmlessly passes between the leaves and falls straight down, pushed by the imaginary weight that seems to have also
grasped his soul.
The stone lands at his thigh.
In anger, he picks it up once more and with a yell, he tosses it straight ahead of him.
Right over the cliff.
Right over the cliff, inches from his feet.
He comes here on some occasions to think.
To contemplate his existence.
And the only place he ever gets is closer to the edge, until some days he’s dangling from it with a grin on his face.
But now, he wears only a blank stare. His eyes are unfocused as millions of little ideas and thoughts race through his head.
He sits up, then falls forward on his stomach and crawls to the edge,
Putting his face over it so he could see
What the darkness has to
He stands, facing the aged willow tree, watching it sway in the breeze until he too begins to sway.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
He closes his eyes and feels the wind rush from the back of his head, blowing his hair into his face.
When he opens his eyes, he sees the night sky and all the stars it has to offer.
All the hopes and dreams and wishes of a lost life.
But he too is lost. Lost in his thoughts and in his tears as he plummets down, down, down, further and further into the darkness. His eyes are blurred with tears so that he cannot see the cliff he was standing on only moments before.
The wind ceases to blow.
His eyes cease to see.
His heart ceases to beat.
He ceases to be me.
I fell asleep last night,
and when I awoke, I was dead.
My eyes opened, and all I could see
was an infinite darkness.
I could hear the devilish silence
calling my name from a distance,
and I wept; was I a bad soul?
My heart was still beating,
my chest was still rising
with every breath,
but I was dead.
Like the rest of the world,
I had no voice.
There were no thoughts in my mind,
I was dead.
But then I woke up, and saw the Sun,
and I wanted to draw him.
I wanted to write a story about him.
And I smiled, for I was alive after all,
a soul that looked up and away
as the rest of the world pretended to live.