Jeremy's Broken Moment

Jeremy sits on the edge of his bed with a loaded gun in his hand. He stares at the floor molding in front of him, neither focused on it or focused on the gun that rests in his peripheral foreground. He cannot focus on a single object because his mind wanders on the dark light that surrounds him. There is no distinct point of concentration in his mind. Only waves of terror, pain, and decision. This is the end.
He places the nozel of the loaded gun into his mouth. His lips can feel the hardness of the gun's metal and hard edges. His teeth clank against the long shaft of the weapon that will kill him. The flat end of the gun scratches the top of his mouth. He can taste the sharp and electric tang of cold steel. He can feel the barrels opening with his tongue.
He pulls the trigger. The trigger is stiff and hard to finally snap, but it does. The entire gun quakes with force and jolt the crashes against his teeth and mouth. His lips wrap tightly around the gun to hold it steady as the bullet makes its was down the barrel. Finally, it escapes.
At first, Jeremy cannot feel the bullet in his mouth. The bullet flies in dead air, only hitting the falling saliva that protrude Jeremy's glands. But as the bullet moves freely, it finds the back of Jeremy's throat. It shreds through the first thin layer of membraned esophagus, twisting and turning through layer after layer. Then, once it has penetrated the flesh, it finds bone. All the nerve endings have been singed to feel extraordinary pain followed by nothing. The blood is evaporated by the heat of the moving vessel. A vessel of death.
The bullet enters Jeremy's soft, pink, and electromagnetic brain. Moving through like a wrecking ball, the bullet destroys the communication between each synapse. His mental conversation falls flat. The topic is lost. But the bullet is not done. It still proceeds to escape the caverns of Jeremy's brain, breaking through cellular membrane, fluids, blood, water, and bone. The bone crumbles in the presence of the bullet, becoming dust in its wake.
The last level is the skin. It cannot contain the force of the bullet, nor will it try. Rather, it opens up for the bullet to find it's freedom in the open air before it.
Jeremy dies. The bullet lives on.

Death of the Frog

To croak or not to crock? That is the question that boggles the lives of the amphibious. Lift your head into the sky and with your last breath, inflate your neck to the heavens.

This was for love. No, this was for the royalty. No, this was for the love of royalty. This was to immortalize my journey. To journalize my story. To tell the tale of how I climbed mountains in a bound. How once a tad pole became a rule of lily pads. How pond via pond, I changed an entire nation and brought it to its knees.

Give me your hands. Let me feel your fingers across my swollen body. Feel each bump of my courage. Stare into the blackness of my eyes and they loose they memories. My spirt yet is not so lost. I will live on in your heart.

So kiss my lips. Taste my weakened tongue one last time. Listen as I whisper my passing. See me blossom into a prince.

Blank Pages

Ready?
I haven't written anything in a while because I simply haven't. I don't mind that I haven't. But it doesn't mean that I haven't wanted to. Before, when I wasn't writing anything, I would just stare at a black screen. Then I stopped doing that and just stared at my computer from across the room. When I stopped doing that, I would just stare at the floor. And so on and so forth until I was staring at my stare. Then I started going to youporn instead.
I have a friend who keeps asking me to write a short film or commercial or something for him to direct. I just think, but I have youporn now. Why would I want to go back and stare at the black page again.
The worst thing about writing is reading you own work again. I equate it with staring at the toilet after I've taken a mean shit. I know what I ate, Why do I need to see it now that it came out of my ass. I know what I wrote. Why subject myself to its stench.
Writing can be good for you though. You get to express your feeling about issues in the world or in your life. You get to talk to an open sea of "readers". You get to spellcheck. You can tell a story.
Shit fuck dick horse shit fuck dick. Doesn't that have a nice ring to it? Try reading it out loud. No really, try it. You see? I wrote it, you read it, I read it.
This is the hard part now. I am tired, I am writing. it's been so long since I've written. I don't know how to end this. Like it needs an ending. Does writing need anything? Do I need writing?
I think about it for the next time I write something.