Stephenr2393's Blog

This house is not a home

stephenr2393 — Tue, 10 Feb 2009 00:40:20 +0000

It’s a rehabilitation center for the sick, wounded children of God.
A place of peace quickly turns into Hell on Earth.
This house is not a home.

I guess you could also call this “therapy”.
Hatred.
Regret.
Welcome to the third floor, breaking point.
Venting.
Letting go.
Forgiving.
Rinse, lather, repeat.

Each week the water beats harder on this house-that-is-not-a-home.
Slowly
But surely
Tearing this thing apart.

The Fight, Pt. 1

stephenr2393 — Mon, 09 Feb 2009 07:42:58 +0000

For the last 21 minutes, my parents have been arguing.
Dad is sick, depressed, and can’t, or won’t, admit that.
Mom is fogged by her own anger and frustration and helplessness.
Small arguments have been going on through the past week.
Distilled water for his C-PAP machine ( WHERE THE HELL IS IT!!!).
Do we fire the new designer Jeff just hired who’s not making him any more money, or do we rehire the one we know works for a little bit more. (WE CAN’T AFFORD THE OTHER ONE.)
Where are you? Are you going to make dinner late again? (We’re on our way home, hunny.)
Childish, stupid comments that sets them both off.

They’re not children. They just act like it.

Dad tries to dominate the argument.
“THIS is what you said, not this.”

A series of high pitched wails come from mom.
“I MEANT THIS!!! I don’t even know where you got that from.”

I’m sitting here.
Waiting.
Wishing.

To be drugged.
To ignore the anger.
To ignore the imminent threat of leaving each other.
This house is not a home.

It’s a rehabilitation center for the sick, wounded children of God.
A place of peace quickly turns into Hell on Earth.
This house is not a home.

I guess you could also call this “therapy”.
Hatred.
Regret.
Welcome to the third floor, breaking point.
Venting.
Letting go.
Forgiving.
Rinse, lather, repeat.

Each week the water beats harder on this house-that-is-not-a-home.
Slowly
But surely
Tearing this thing apart.

Who Am I?

stephenr2393 — Sun, 08 Feb 2009 11:54:06 +0000

The prep.
The druggie.
The scene kid.
The skater-poser.
the burnout.
The goth.
the emo.
The dumbass.
The kid-who-can’t-decide-who-he-wants-to-be.
What he wants to do with his life.
Who he wants to have in it.
And who he wants out of it.
Why does he want that specifically.
How does he plan to live for the next 84 years of his life?
Get a piercing… Or five.
Get three tattoos, all with personal significance.
Work my way up from that.
Do what you love.
Don’t do what you don’t like.
So. Who am I?
I’ve tried the prep. (couldn’t keep up with the “in” crowd.)
I’ve tried the skater. (I was a poser that had no life. Get one. be a rebel.)
I’ve tried the rebel without a cause. (that almost got me arrested. Be a druggie because your life is shit.)
I’ve tried the druggie. (woke up, couldn’t remember what I did the night before. now that all hope is gone, be a burnout.)
I’ve tried the burnout. (turns out it’s as glorious as being shit at a zoo. Now that you are less than nothing, be a goth.)
I’ve tried the goth. (people thought I needed medical help. You need medical attention.)
I’ve tried the emo. (Turns out I did need medical help. Now the drugs have made you a zombie. Blame it on the drugs for your stupidity.)
I’ve tried the dumbass. (you’re just a dumbass, dumbass.)

Dancer’s Thoughts

stephenr2393 — Sun, 25 Jan 2009 23:16:22 +0000

So I just dance my cares away
Or the bass pounds each thought out of my head
ONE two three four.
one TWO three four.
one two THREE four.
one two three FOUR.
One.
By.
One.
They crash on the dance floor
The sweat beats around the dancers in a shower of love for the freedom of the structured music.
The music is our lives.

I think too much.

stephenr2393 — Sun, 25 Jan 2009 23:15:20 +0000

All the thoughts like a strawberry smoothie
Whirring in an industrial blender
‘Round
‘Round
And ’round again
They can’t stop, wont stop
And Refuse to give up until I tire too much to care about anything.
The exhaustion hits me like fifty bricks to the face
One by one, weighing and wearing me down.
A sack of emotional baggage.
My burden.
My curse.
Me.

White Room

stephenr2393 — Sat, 15 Nov 2008 01:45:02 +0000

That white room echoes the voices of the past
The voices of the future
All around me the Voices sing their song
The song of life and the song of death
I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive!
Catch me when I fall from false graces
That plague my mind and body
Purge the evil from my heart
I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive!

Silver Screens And Broken Dreams

stephenr2393 — Fri, 07 Nov 2008 15:55:38 +0000

Silver screens
white lights
Dark hearts
Dark lies
Person to person
Eye to eye
Out comes
The truth
The truth still lies.

collection of poems from facebook

stephenr2393 — Fri, 07 Nov 2008 15:53:14 +0000

Really there’s no use, there’s no use
To keep getting my Attention, please
The radio’s songs quietly sing me to sleep with the sound of your voice doing the chorus
You’re still here, yes you’re still here
But just barely. That’s the way it should be.

she’s all alone and with a pen
to write the words she didnt say
and the lines he would have fed
waiting for the call that never came

Come down from your perch
It’s okay, won’t hurt you
But the issues at hand could kill you
walking on thin ice, You’d say it’s exciting
I say it’s dangerous
We can do it, we can do it.
No you can’t. No you can’t.

I miss your sweet lullabies
The way you’d say goodnight
The dagger’s through ‘em
And I keep sayin’ no turning back.

Yeah I screamed, and I screamed loud
I wish I could go louder and louder until
The breaking point of my desire was fulfilled
But It wasn’t, and all hope was lost.

You make me yearn for those years we will never have.
The earlier years of the Plague, Cameras were so new, and Love was true.
I want those yellowed pages to be white again
And I want the gentle hands that made that paper yellow to be yours
The frail fingers scratching those paper thing sheets of my heart.
“bah bum bah bum.”

Stuttering

stephenr2393 — Fri, 07 Nov 2008 15:51:21 +0000

The need to write has been in me since I could remember
Speaking was never my strong suit
But writing.
That’s where I shined.
I couldn’t speak a word ’till 3
Everyone else was talkin’ up a storm.
I decided that when I stu-stu-stutter
There’s just no hope of those words coming out.
So I write to my mother and my father
They know why I write.
It’s not a preference, anymore.
Writing is my passion, my obsession
My voice rings clear through the paper and pen and the eyes that the people read
my words that I speak.

ICU

stephenr2393 — Fri, 07 Nov 2008 15:50:57 +0000

I’m not sure if today’s the day
To celebrate the rebirth of
Something old and wretched
The monster beating inside my chest
He’s found a new way out
Through my head, and my heart
He’s found the backdoor
He’s one crafty son-of-a-bitch
Start messing with my mind now
You gunna start messing with my head?
They got the fix
Lithium, prozac, whatever it takes to get him dead
And out of me

There he goes again
Said he’s, running through the halls like
It’s one big empty shopping mall
And there’s no stopping, him
Until he gets what he deserves

We need some justice and agony,
cleanup here on aisle four
Cause he’s weeping on the floor with the telephone glued to his ear Screamin’
“There ‘aint no Stephen here, leave a message after the beep.” and the
Swirling and the
Whirling inside of his eyes just sicken my mind
What pain he could be in?
Why can’t he tell us?
We don’t know.
[I don't know.]
So they pick him up off of the floor [ lets go!]
And he asks the wall, the halls of lab coats and PHD’s
“What’s wrong, doc, what’s wrong?”
And then he’s off to a nice white room with nice calm people
They practice at a steeple just outside of town
Then they said, ” There’s nothing wrong, son, you’re just fine, you’re just fine”
Throwing the stretcher through the emergency exit with their heads bowed
In shame, and in pain
Of the monster that they’ve let loose
So that’s the story of those two, they were fired, hired, and called liars when the beast attacked and nobody knew
It was silent
But the troubles come in threes
The sheer anxiety of what I am and what it is
Is quite unnerving
But when the ball drops and swings to the hands that point to twelve
We can say that it was one hell of a day
Just wait for the
Next symphony of hate.