I might kill myself. But isnt that what every one says? That they might. The ones who do just make the ones who couldnt sad.

No matter what i do where i go somebody is gonna hate me and hate somebody too

Poem To The Freaks -Jack Micheline

To lives as I have doneis surely aburd
in cheap hotels and furnished rooms
To walk up side streets and down back alleys
talking to oneself
and screaming to the sky obscenities
That the arts is a rotten business indeed
That mediocrity and the rage of fashion rules
My poems and paintings piled on the floor
To be one with himself
A saint
A Prince
To Persevere
Through storms and hard-ons
Through dusk and dawns
To kick death in the ass
To be passed over like a bad penny
A midget
An Ant
A roach
A freak
A Hot Piece
An Outlaw
Raise your cup and drink my friend
Drink for those who walk alone in the in the night
To the cripled and the blind
To the lost and the damned
To the lone bird flying in the sky
Drink to wonder
Drink to me
Drink to pussy and dreams
Drink to madness and all the stars
I hear the birds singing

May 16, 1975 San Francisco, CA

Whats real anymore? I need some real help. I need something...

To You~ Walt Whitman Stranger, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me, why should you not speak to me? And why should I not speak to you? 1860

Falling away from the world a little.

Steeping forward to fall head first down the
long tunnel of what once was love
Hands reaching out to rip and tare away
at your used soul
Carrying away your mind, your body wanders
the campus of your heart
Every dorm empty and every classroom over
filled.

Who cares?

It's a slow burning image in her eyes that reflect my soul,
Burning thoughts that roast my mind, and loosen
my grip on this reality that the world has dropped at my naked feet.
Ground gives away to my imagination, falling around the leaves that cover the ground
around where i once
stood strong facing into the wind staring at it's tired eyes,
losing your mind you cant help but wonder
what happens to it once you can no longer find it.

It's lost between the cracks in society's dance floor.

From a notebook. Trying to remember.

I sit there,
a table facing the bar, my cigrete smoke hanging
in the empty space across from me.
The man at the bar looks at his phone, almost troubled. Hes beer
mostly empty, his feelings still full.
Two girls in the far table, just off work
a pint each, await their food just before closing.
The tired, beaten, worn cooks must hate these girls they never see.
My coffee half empty in it's usual place, infront of me.
My cigrette now half gone, as my small cup of soup arives, without a thought
untill the cancer has been smoked and put out.
Smoke first, then food, eat food, then smoke.
It's becomes a rutine of all smokers in a place such as this.
Bring to lips, flick lighter [always zippo never bic], light, drag, blow, drag hard, knock, blow out side of mouth, drag, repeat...
...Die.

The morning is strange time of day.
No one really knows how to feel. They are sometimes happy, some times mad or grumpy. Some people are very very awake really fast and others arn't untill noon at best.
Everyone at some point or another drinks coffee in the morning.
atleast once in their life. Think of it like it's a drug. Just a more society acceptable drug. In a way that's just what it is.




I hate the birds singing outside my window.
I hate the bright warming sunlight shinning thought onto my face to gently wake me from my sleep.
I hate the feeling of a new morning and new ideas and thoughts.
I hate the feeling of the warm clean water falling gently onto my newly awaken skin.
I hate that I love all these feelings.




It's a play on a poem i had todo once in my highschool poetry class about how you had to talk about all the stuff you love but talk about it like you hate it. In the example poem it was about how she "hated the sparkle of your eyes when you look at me"
See I'm not that hateful. ;)

It's a life almost worth fighting for.

I'm a boy.
I once lived a life i loved more than most could say. What now? I'm not sure...
...Not sure im really even living anymore. I feel pain. That might be a sign that I'm alive..but am i really living? It's both physical and mental. The mental is forced on me. The physical is something of my creation.


I feel life's bow being strung across the strings of my mind and thought,
an ungiving feeling of remorse and rejection.
Hate from days past still hangs deep in the empty pit of my stomach,
unwilling to save myself let alone the will of society to keep going,
to keep... living, passing me by like a lost word in the air above one's daydream.