I am...

i am the forgotten, the over looked, the invisible,
i am the friend, the good guy, the big heart, the
one who deserves better, and who in turns will never
receive anything from anyone. I am the solace in
the pit of your soul, the tear choked back from your eye,
the loneliness when you sleep at night.
I am the memory of a good thing gone wrong,
the wish in your mind when you realize what you had,
the arrogance of your abhorrence towards my affection.

I am the despair that rubs against your lies, the melancholy
behind your eyes, the last true form of valor in our lives.
I am the empty bottle tossed to the side, the humility of your pride.
The purity you never knew could reside.

I am the last good thing this town has ever seen.

a free writing technique

There are pretentious intentions imbedded within us all
some people keep it lodged away deep inside,
others let it rest on their flesh for the world to see.
We live by a fairy tale code that was
meant to be broken, so don't be the one
to judge another when you've done
you're fair share of shallow fun.

I offer you this body as a road to travel,
a personal invitation to walk all over me.
So please scrape your dirt
on my neatly steamed pressed shirt
and move onto your next destination ,
I will always keep your mud stained tracks across
my heart as a monument dedicated to our affection.

I beg for the strength to choke back the tears,
and to never release the salty rain from eyes again,
so to preserve the path she paved.
I in return, I will promise to swallow
my sorrow and keep my smile as bright
as the sun that shines so that I will always
be able to see the mess you left for me
to clean up.

Hello Solace

Hello solace, it's been some time since we last spoke.
I've missed your cold touch, your desolate ominous kiss.
You have always been close to my heart,
I offer it to you once again, it is yours to take.

Hello solace, I have missed the long lonely nights we shared.
The many moons we laid under.
You have always been there when they leave,
to hold me close when everything else
feels so far out of reach.

Solace, you are my lover, friend, companion, the only
truth I can hold onto in this crazy world.
Without you I would have nothing,
and I welcome you back with these arms
out stretched and ready for your embrace.

A collection of Broken Hearts, Emo Poetry, and Bullshit sad lame free verses.

This is an experimental collection of free verse and half assed attempt at poetry. its obvious during this time i have been going through some rough personal shit, and it bleeds through my words. Feel free to read, be warned, its sad, its emo, its disgusting, its truly experimenting with my own artistic emotions.

A Hero Named Solace:

It's in these times when the night sky becomes my best friend and I look towards the moon for the wisdom to set my mind free from the chains that hold me captive. I seek the knowledge to garner the inner strength to hold onto my own morality. I cling onto the stars with my every breath and pray to the hollow skies for a voice whose existence I doubt more than the folly of this fickle society we call home. It's in these times when I fall onto bended knee and scream to the milky way to pull away its black veil and reveal its naked truth to me. There is beauty in the fallacy of human nature, and I offer you my bare body spread open to the world for the taking. Feed me your shots, I will swallow your abhorrence and bury it deep inside this mangled vessel of my bodily flesh. My mind cannot be bartered, and although I gambled away my heart long ago, my integrity will forever be tattooed on the flesh of my forehead for the world to see.

A plea for help:

this flesh colored corridor is sacred, and I will protect it

with my life, guard it with my bone and brawn, I will not

allow it to be ravished by those unworthy of its splendor.

I will not allow it to perish in the hands of the unworthy,

the self-righteous, self-concerned, the self absorbed.

I will walk away from the pain with a smirk, wipe the blood

from my heart, soak up the sorrow, I will turn the page and

live for tomorrow. I am better than this child in the corner

with salt stained cheeks. he is the enemy, the evil in the world,

he is all I hate about myself. I will rectify these lies painted on

my wrists, I will believe in the only person worth trusting,

I will continue to follow my heart, continue to live by my morals,

my values, my rules. This is my world, and you're just a small

part of a grandiose scheme, a pixel of my superior illustration of life.

Somewhere in this junkyard called existence I will find my happiness.

And I will fight every waking moment of my life to secure it

safely within my weathered and scarred arms.

A Flower Pot Called Love:

this world centers around your arrogance, and the fickle

feathers of your ignorance rests at the bottom

of this cracked flower pot called love,

-or hate,

depending on which side of the blossom you sit.

There's nothing more to the world than the nose

that rests in front of your own eyes. This word 'perspective'

is hollow and empty

and within your arms you carry the plunder

of broken hearts, lost smiles, and salt stained tears.

there is no right outside of your own misplaced needs,

and only the wrong will ever be muttered

from your mouth to others.

so turn your back,

keep your silence, and never give into vulnerability.

Then, and only then,

happiness will be waiting right around the corner,

right alongside your brother loneliness and your sister

solitude.

A Sick Joke Called Realism:

Cryptic messages tattooed on your chest,
A bright smile filled with confusion
That spews Contradictions,
Spoken with every
Breath,

Breathe, release, rinse, wash
Repeat:
Choke
Choke
Choke
On the core. On life. On lies. On half truths.
The game begins
With love
With out love
With lies
Half truths
Clung
by a foolish boy

Who dreams, sleeps, and dreams some more

Of a clueless girl. Of flower petals
falling from trees
Holding you in a sea
Of clouds, of truth, of purity.

In his dreams, its real. In his dreams
Its worth everything. Even in his dreams

He dreams
Of you.

A whole

There’s a whole
Wet and deep.
That reeks of dirt and worms.
Roots uprooted
From the foolish folly of another.
Filled once
With the life of mother earth
Emptied by the selfishness
Of the one who took to its soil.
Left alone now for all to see
Ripped apart, gaped open to never
Be filled again.

Its days like these
That make me wish I never
Felt the fresh air in my lungs
Where everything spins and you
Sink deep into that terrible place
That took you years
To crawl out of.
It shouldn’t be this way.
But it always is this way.

Untitled

Its days like these
That make me wish I never
Opened my eyes to this word
And saw it for its true intentions
And felt the black of the night
Cast its shadow
on my heart.
It shouldn’t be this way
But it always is.

Its days like these
Where we toss away are morals
And live day by day
by our selfish needs.
Where you’re fellow man is worth
Only what you can gain from him.
It shouldn’t be this way
But it always is.

Its days like these
Where God died in the hearts
Of our forgotten children
And there ethics are lost
Strung up on the cross
Where Jesus should lay.
It shouldn’t be this way.
But fuck it,
It always is.

The Aging Artist

The story written in the previos blog (entitled: The Canvas) came from a poem i wrote back in a poetry workshop class i took a few winters ago. Poetry is not my strongest genre, but i was told that this was damn good. Is it? I am not sure, i suppose you can decide that for yourself. I will say that there is/was something to the poem that made me want to go back to it and explore it with a fiction piece. So, for shits and giggles i figured i would post the only decent poem i have written or probably ever will write. I think its fun to read this and compare it to the other piece. Maybe not though, i don't know.

The Artist
By J.L. Hickey

I often found him hunched

over a small white desk

with a very loud yellow lamp

resting above his shoulders

as if it was his own personal

blazing sun, illuminating his creations.

I would sit and watch his dirty fingers

while his brush would magically

create life from nothingness.

A tall sailboat braving the Atlantic waves,

a dirty back end of a pick up truck

including all the fixings of white trash.

Gadgets sprawled all around him

the necessary tools of his trade,

rulers shaped like triangles and

erasers that looked like wrapped caramels

but smelled like the soles

of my childhood shoes.

Now I find him often hunched

on the lazy boy recliner

watching his shows and stories,

his fingers pink and wrinkled

his hair now shaded in

with white and grays

as if his pencil’s have turned against him.