How do you know that your soul is yours when being yourself closes the doors in the life where the rain pours into your pores from all of the stores where the tongue is the lord?

People say this people say that, fuck is the sword and you is the gat. Weapons and weapons and curses and blessin’s there is no difference when the silence it defeans and you can go run and you can go hide but that doesn’t mean it won’t make you swallow your pride.

C and L is the initials I rep while the crushed and the lost are the closest to death so I need to use the life that I have to sweat and place their bets on the table where chances are left

I’m out the door (see ya)
I’m in the cold
I’m feelin reckless(crazy)
I’m feelin bold

I need to go (leave)
I need to stay
To make it alive
Is all I pray

Sometimes I lie awake at night and wonder and dream about the reasons we fight and the reasons I have are not reasons but lies that I use to shelter my soul that’s inside,

Cuz I’ve been too hurt and I’ve been too scared to put myself out for People out there and I’ve taken some shots and I’ve too many cares but I’ve never been brave enough to ask about Their’s.

Life is a book and hard is Her cover because too many trifles hide sisters and brothers from seein the light inside one another and mother’s of other’s and mother of mine say take that light let it shine let it shine inside every note inside every rhyme cuz now its so dark so now is the time.

I’m out the door (see ya)
I’m in the cold
I’m feelin reckless(crazy)
I’m feelin bold

I need to go (leave)
I need to stay
To make it alive
Is all I pray

As I stare out the window, the green I can see and the other side of the field isn’t free for people who love-for people like me. Growin roots down strong like a tree put some glasses on top to sip that OE

And how can I tell when I’ve reached the peak is it when the wind snaps like the birds with their beaks
When days turn to weeks?
When cities all sleep?
When people care about the shit that they see?

I won’t tell you so don’t you tell me about all of the steps that are necessary, to better my self or yourself to each, his own and own his each, stick your toes in the sand cuz this life is a beach.

I’m not even supposed to spell his name out, how am I supposed to be a catholic?

I just don’t know anymore.  After Elizabeth, I thought after a while, “Okay, This happens sometimes…doesn’t it?”

After Peter I looked up and thought, “Really? you’ve got to be kidding me.”

After Quinny and John…I just gave up.

My dad always show due how important his religion was to him; he never told me in words but he always expressed through action and his commitment to church how much Christ and G-d means to him.  I used to be in sync with that..sorta.  I mean i used to go to church and pray and stuff but that was only because I felt like I had to.  After everything that’s happened i just don’t know where to find the strength to set foot in a church anymore.

 I don’t feel comfortable in there, the windows clare at me and follow my every footstep.  The overhead lighting gave shadows a chance to play at my sides. Ghosts fluttered from the rafters, barely visible in the rays of light.  

I don’t like churches.  They remind me of things that are too painful to relive in my head, memories that make my stomach churn and bubble up with resentment and my lunch.  I just can’t.  Things get far too black for me.  

Because of this, i think i have a fear of religion a fear of G-d.  How the hell am I supposed to believe that Morgan Freeman is sitting up on some maroon cloud snickering at my plight, at my pain and the pain of everyone else.  It’s some real BS if you ask me, and I’m tired of feeling alone in the universe with nothing to look up at in the night sky when the stars aren’t there.  Cant’ I be happy, be spiritual with myself and with my soul, without the steeple’s terra-cotta teeth closing in on my neck?  

It’s pretty messed up God. yeah, I said your name in Times New Roman, they didn’t have “Divine Scrawl” on tumblr.  

I don’t think that i have to follow you, read your books or even go to church to retain my spirituality.  I can do just fine on my own, and if you are REALLY there, maybe you can oversee that I don’t end up like so many of “your people” who you love and care for

or so you say..

I guess, for me, it all comes down to Sr. Alessandria’s speech in 5th grade, “Your best friends are Jesus and the dictionary.  Remember you have a vocation.  Maybe not to be a priest, rockstar, or astronaut, but you are meant for something.”  Through the broken english of an adorable Italian nun, i could make out a message that might be too complex for 5th graders to truly understand, but it makes sense now. 

I have a Vocation, Im here for a reason.  I was always so scared that my sudden lack of or disbelief in God would leave me stranded on earth, no end after the end.  I didn’t want to be left alone in death like i felt in life so often.  

POW it hit me.

I really telegraphed it with the “I have a vocation” line back there but, hey, it still hit me pretty hard.  Life doesn’t need to be about getting to heaven or going to church religiously (get it?)  Maybe there IS a chance for me.  Vocations are where your passions and strengths meet the needs of the world.  Whether you’re a kick-ass painter, an athlete or some total genius—if you TRULY love what you’re doing—the world needs you.  Living a life full of passion and wonder, imagination and discovery, or maybe cleats and turf burn are all means to an end. 

We’re gonna die, I get it.  But nobody should have to die young—not fulfilling their vocation and helping everyone who loves them just by being there.  I don’t need religion to be spiritual and believe in a life worth living, all I need is to turn that fire in my gut that i get when I’m on stage into some energy, baby, and we’re cooking with gas.  

I’m still learning what it means to be Conor, and that’ll take time.  But my vocation will come calling soon enough and set things into perspective. 

Hey, buddy, if you’re up there, make sure I don’t have to see any more of my friends miss out on their vocations.  I know if you do exist and there is a heaven, then you must have one hell of a motley crew up there and I sure as hell can’t wait to see everyone again.  But as things stand—not knowing if you are there—well that’s just damn fine.  

see you on the other side, Elizabeth.  Make sure that Lauren and Quinn and Peter and John know that I love them with all my heart.  

With all the places and the laptops, the faces on the backdrops,

one gaze stuck out among the rest as the camera faded to the blacktop. 

When I pull down the map of north America all I see is a fare in a cup,

of the man sitting on the curb there by the pub,

 as he clenches his fingers with a stare and some love,

 the sparks in his eyes flared and then went out. 

Flickering moments in the life of a sinner

are not often perceived as the times of a winner,

and you say don’t be bitter but man you really should consider the trials through which ive wintered and the vials of tears of which ive pitchered

and lists of names there aren’t titular, fears that are nominal and lessons that are fit to learn.

Like a shoe size too big for your lies come the cussing out of the peoples cries,

and from beneath the guise of some of these other guys

comes this real sense of false friendship seen through ignorant eyes.

As the truth is swallowed by hollow replies, the lives of some people meet their demise.

And the demise isn’t met with a hand that was astray and who proved true they were happy that day. 

Maybe take a closer look and see they were caught in the fray of new school cruel and hung home that day.

The truth isn’t easy to suppress, I know it takes effort not to blare it

And the message that would be conveyed needs to be inserted like a caret,

Or some other carrot or thing in the ground as a rose like derrick,

not even the MVP can make peace over seas, he just cant bear it.

Even in passing does the film of our loved ones remain coating our hearts and memories. Fibers of reality bleached with their specter. Like fugitives of a roaring fire do their spirits flitter on the crimson horizon and the air blazons with a supernatural glory.

When i go to sleep i see their faces in my dreams, their gaunt and pale expressions calling out to me for some kind of rope. If only i had that one word, if only i could utter something that would spin a web of reason in their brains. As i watched them slip away as i passed into the sleep world, my acidic nightmares eroded the morsels of sanity that clung to my skull’s innermost layer.

To me it isn’t coincidence alone that leaves us stranded on the same day with the same feeling. There is most certainly something else that walks at our shadow’s hand, that graces the dust above the ground with its footsteps. The dirt and sand shudder ever so slightly at the potted marks of displaced air where she and he walk along with me. If i trudge along faster, so do their racing feet. If i speed up to a nearly breakneck pace they over come me.  i can not run away from them.  I can not run away from their souls, their grasp and their gaze.  I can run all i want but their memory will remain inked on my skin like a tattoo of a corpse.  

Everywhere i look i see them.  They look at me, watching me, waiting to see what I will do with my next step—my next breath.  I don’t mind though, eventually the feeling of being viewed like a test subject leaves me and I am calm.  I miss them and their patrol calms me.  

I love them so much.  I can’t try to run anymore.  I know they’re gone, but just as wholly as they are not here, their presence remains as true in our hearts—in mine.  

The sunlight stoops below the eves of the trees as the day gives itself to the night.  Purple streaks lie across the sky like clotheslines.  the fog creeps along the ground like a snake and inches closer to the beach.  In the town of Massedeaux there is rarely ever a night where the fog doesn’t creep in and swallow the shoreline.  

At Claiborne’s Pub on the corner of Finch and Ocean Boulevard, a man sat down at the bar.  This man didn’t belong there.  His face had a nasty scar tracing up from his left jaw to his opposite eye and on to his right temple.  His eyes were an icy blue.  

“What can I get you, sir?” asked the bartender

“Get me a glass of water, barkeep.”

“Right away, sir.”

The bartender poured him a glass of water with a few cubes of ice.  the man drank it gingerly as thought the act pained him.  He marked the glass down on the wooden bar with such force that it nearly broke.  The bar was an old, antique piece that must have been from ages ago, perhaps from when the bar was a saloon for the fisherman who came into town to trade.  

“Careful, Mister, those glasses will break.”

“Apologies, then, barkeep,” whispered the man.  

Suspicion nudged the Bartender’s thoughts.

“Say, I’ve never seen you in town before.  What’s your name?”

The man, who had been sitting there with his hands on the brushed gold edge of the bar, looked up and placed his palms flat on the wood.  

“Is this bar open all night?” he asked.

“No, sir, it closes at midnight.  Why don’t you tell me your name.”

At that moment one of the doors blew open.

“Fuckin wind. I think we’re gonna see a storm soon; weather seems awfully bad tonight.” He turned around after he shut them, a slight scowl creeping onto his  ”Alright, you’re gonna need to tell me your name or get the hell out of my bar.”

The man stood up.  His black sweater had a gold streak running down his right sleeve and the cuffs were tattered just slightly.  His gray cords were worn down and calloused with wear, his belt the same.  Black, rubber-soled boots squeaked as he placed them on the floor.  6 foot and broad, he once was muscular though his muscles still retained a sinewy strength.  

Fists clenched, he just looked at the bartender, still standing by the door.

“I said..tell me what your name is or get the fuck out you creep,” said the bartender angrily. 

“Tell me yours,” croaked the man

“Peter, my name’s Peter.”

“That’s a good name, a father’s name I reckon.”

“Yeah, it was. Now who are you and why are you in town?”

_______________________________________________________

to be continued after dinner

To those browsing from SMU, the written pieces really start at page 3.  A lot of these are personal pieces, raps, poems, and monologues from my time in high school.  This window is always open, enjoy!

Snow falls off the old tin roof and into the sea of white

rusted nettles and stinging crystals drops silently.

The white of starlit nightfall 

grasps the sky’s reins, 

sails off into forever

In the end, I’m probably gonna pretend that I don’t like her anymore and we’re all gonna forget about this. But at some point, there will be a time when someones going to need to step up and treat her like the princess she is. I’m gonna be there and its going to feel all that much better after waiting. she’s gonna think wow what perfect timing he likes me again, but I’m gonna be able to smile to myself because I was there all along

Ive always been prone to fits of adoration when it came to dogs, especially puppies.  Ive had one by my side as long as I can remember and all I have to do to get her to talk to me is scratch her behind her ears. I wish that’s how girls really worked, but alas they do not.  I read a book called The art of Racing in the Rain, which is about a dog, Enzo, who lives with his owner Phil who is a racecar driver.  The story is told from Enzo’s point of view and it illustarates the relationship between a man and his dog the way I always thought it was like.  Enzo, to me, was the embodiment of raw human emotion.  There was none of the bullshit that you find in everyday relationships, no fakeness, no drama and certainly no lies.  Enzo didn’t know how to lie, he didn’t know what a lie was and he never could understand-despite his efforts- the horrible things he saw human beings do to each other.  I wish that’s how my word was; pure, simple and real.  I don’t know why people are mean to each other, why people kill other people or why they kill themselves.  I don’t understand why people have to be sad all the time at the hands of so called friends, I REALLY would like to know why girls are so mean and why it always hurts a little bit more each time it doesn’t work out-which is always.  I wish my eyes were like Enzo’s eyes, blissfully ignorant and honest.  I’ve always heard being called a dog or acting like a dog used as an insult.  Well, to me that sounds like a damn nice thing sometimes.