Another time John thought he was a poet

Unfinished

Unfinished poems

Filled with giant feelings

In words too small

Which don't describe

By half the whole

Weave of emotions

From the innocent soul

Of a child too small.

Kidnapped from his dragon filled world

And thrown to waste

In a dark reality

Paved with shards

Of blood and altered life.

Forever more twisted

And always left unfinished.

Likewise the words, the dreams

And the futile desires...

John's sunrise conviction

                She was the kind of girl that leaves a man with only one of two choices. You either fall madly in love with her or you hate her for everything that she is. John chose the third. He knew where it would all end up and he finished it before it even started. After all, no harm no foul is always the safest way of dealing with these kind of things.

                To be honest, she offered him the thing he craves the most in this whole damn world. A chance to die. To die and revive himself, become something new, something else. And that's all he wishes, to become something else, because now he is nothing and it hurts like hell. But he politely refused it. He never even knew that he would be capable of refusing such an opportunity. And yet he did it. And he sure doesn't regret it. He resents it a bit, but not the slightest trace of regret. Now, we could go on and on all over again about John's lack of faith in regret, but we won't because we already did it and it's irrelevant in this matter. You must still admit though that this whole refuse doesn't make sense. John never does. Nothing ever does.

                We're drifting from the subject though aren't we? Like always the talk about John becomes about bullshit. But bullshit is always the subject in matter when it comes to John Doe. He's all about meaningless talks and useless concepts with his crappy point of view about life and love and everything in the universe and beyond. And that's a bit harsh but we can afford to talk shit about John because he never talks shit about anyone. That's just not him.

                But the girl. Where does that leave us with the girl? He lived and died a thousand times and did it all over again in his head with her or without her. He weighed all the possible scenarios and outcomes of his death in that moment and ended up numbly refusing the sentence. And so she just becomes yet another excuse, another bullet to dodge. She remains forever pure to the world and a cold hearted murderer only to John and his twisted imagination.

                The killer who never bothered to pull the actual trigger...

John's brainfreeze

The beautiful bliss

Of reaching inner peace

Is upon me because

I'm longing to fly

Into the darkness of your eye

And find what it is

That you do so to please

Yourself as for me

There's nothing more to see

For I have been in your eyes

And I have seen there that lies

Can never set you free

From a mind that's at sea

In a struggle with the world

That doesn't lead to the pot of gold

At the end of a rainbow of mud

And so in my eyes

There's hopes of blue skies

And of suns warm as hell

But to someone I must tell

That in spite of my bliss

You should know that I always

Carry an umbrella. 

John's selfish romance

                Romance, the best joke ever told in this world. John knows a thing or two about romance. He is, after all an idealist, and what can be more utopist than romance. It's basically something that only lives in one's head, and because our John is nothing more than a shadow in a head, romance lives in him. He feeds from it, the same way he feeds from the pain. Because pain is nurturing for a romantic, it's the only possible outcome of love, and so it must keep flowing so that love can keep existing.

                Actually, pain is the way that John's idealism materializes. He's a ghost of love, and pain is what happens when he tries to escape in reality. Because love can't fully conjure in the real world, it turns into pain instead so that the ghost remains a ghost, so that it doesn't become real. After all, who would want the ghosts to become reality. Just imagine how fucked up this world would be if out of nowhere all of our ghosts would start to take shape and walk with us, follow us like minions everywhere we go. Not to say that the world isn't fucked up anyway, but that's another story. Think about it. Think about walking down the street and seeing every John Doe, everyone with a story. " I'm John's lack of self--esteem, pleased to meet you, would you like to  walk all over me?". "I'm John's hopeless romance, would you like to break me up into pieces and feed me to the dogs of hate?".

                So yeah, it's better that John remains a ghost, that all the Johns and Janes are ghosts. They follow us everywhere, but no one else can see them, no one to bother them, no one to feed them or crush them. John is free to live his pitiful inexistence in peace. And so is Jane. And she always was, just like he's always been. Both free ghosts trapped in two heads, both the same and at the same so different. Both wanting to break loose, still both fighting their way back inside after every little breath of air they get accompanied by a merciful slap on the face by the stone cold reality that they so desperately trying to reach.

                Oh, Jane Doe. The one. The first one. The only true romance in John's existence. The one that brought him to life and then gently killed him as an act of kindness. So much to know about her and yet so little to say. And even less ever said. A love unknown by her, a selfish love, John's first love. She never knew, and she never will, because John could never be as brave as to confront his maker in the first place. And yet he misses her. He misses himself too. The old John Doe, the primordial one, he wishes he could go back to that existence, when he never even dreamt of the real world. Everything was imagination, and it was the best love story of all.

                Just take a moment to consider. What better than to have not one, but a thousand outcomes to a billion scenarios and to be able to live them over and over again, without ever knowing how any of them would end in the real world. Just the purity of a sick imagination. The real world spoils the romance, and Jane Doe remains until this day the only true, idealistic, utopist and inexistent love of him. It may have been the most selfish romance of all, but John Doe deeply misses it. He just wishes he could go back. He just wants to be selfish at least once more in his life.

Johns utter happiness

                Yeah, happiness, what a cool concept right? Everybody wants it and everybody claims he's happy. Some even say that others make them happy. Big fucking liars. In this idiotic world the only one that fights for your happiness is you, only you and no one else but you. You must stand your ground and take a swing back at life every time it tries to knock you down, because in the end nobody else can do it for you.

                And that brings us to our stupid little John. Probably the only idiot out there that still puts his twisted ideals above his happiness. The only one fucked up enough to care more for others than for himself, to play with his own feelings just so he doesn't hurt the feelings of others. For a person that doesn't give a fuck about other people's opinion, he sure does put a lot of effort into trying to please everybody and be as politically correct as humanly possible.

                How noble, one may think, what an amazing sacrifice for the sake of others. Wrong! So Goddamn wrong. By doing this John is, in fact, the most selfish person anyone could ever meet in a lifetime. He pleases everybody to keep his options open, he avoids other people's pain so he can keep it all to himself, he feeds from other's right to misery. Deep inside his twisted mind, he knows that no one is really happy, he knows that this mad world fucks us all at one point or another. But he tries his best to keep others happy, or at least to see others happy. This way, his misery is what defines him, it's his own little thing, the only thing that reality can't screw up even more. It's his own special thing. By feeling a lonesome sufferer, John feels special. So fucking special.

                But he's not. The extraordinary John Doe is just another loser in a twisted world, an idiot with a bad case of hypocrisy and a load of self-loath in his brain. Just another closed-up thought in another twisted mind. He could've died a thousand times till now, and that's the only thing that could ever make him special. The only extraordinary thing about him. John Doe won't fucking die. He just won't let go, he keeps himself alive, feeding from other people's happiness and nurturing himself with sadness.  He hides from his happiness like a vampire hides from the sunlight, he just won't quit. All he would have to do would be to let himself catch fire and burn in an explosion of joy. But no. John Doe is a stubborn little fuck, and as said before, it seems that he's bound to survive in this world forever more.

John the dreamer

                Sleep is the best. John loves sleep, from the bottom of his soul. It's probably the best way to escape this fucked up world, and if there were ever a way to sleep through all this mess, John would be the first to try it. When he sleeps, he escapes the world, he escapes his world, and at the same time he escapes his mind. Because when his mind becomes darker than the night, there is no place too far from it where he'd rather be. And sleep, the simplest thing in the world, offers the easiest solution. What better escape from everything than a good old complete shutdown of the brain, what better place to hide from a shitstorm than Johns subconscious.

                And the best part, the most beautiful part about sleeping are, of course, dreams. John is a dreamer, an idealist, and the only place where something could go right for him is of course in his sleep. With every dream comes another world and all he has to do when things go bad is to wake up. Just like that, everything goes away and he's free to sleep himself back to another reality, a better reality. Nothing is real in his dreams, so nothing can hurt John, no scars nor bruises when he wakes up, no problems to solve, no situations to be dealt with. Just complete and utter freedom of thought and imagination.

                But wait, just wait. Because the real world, as usual, has to step in and screw everything out. Because that's what it does, this twisted reality in which the entire planet cohabitates. It screws with Johns plans, it breaks his world, breaches the walls of his dreams and pulls him out to face the reality of how fucked up he really is. Because everything that goes right in his dreams, goes wrong in his reality, and even worse in the real world. And the worst part, of course, is that you can't wake up from reality.

                The only thing you can do, the only thing John can do is go back to sleep. Escape one nap at a time, one small universe after another, shattered one by one by the sound of an alarm clock louder than a bomb and built again the next night, until there will be no more clock, and no more time, and Johns sleep will be eternal. But we all know that this won't happen too soon, because this little fucker, John by his name, is meant to walk this earth forever and drown forever in his mind of which we've talked over and over till now.