Free associate,
associate freedom over piano keys
to verbalize temporary holocausts
of the inner voice
breaking over rooftops
only to collapse 
into something resembling
anxious sentences,
instant depressions
and shallow smoke
and mirrors sideshows.
Shake hands with fate
cos I can't shake your
faith,
bombs are always 
dropping on the sidewalks
sending pedestrians in chunks
to earlier graves than
original planned.
What a fucking afternoon,
what a beautiful mess
we've made for our
children to come up in,
not a political statement,
but a statement,
none the less.
We were made
to joyride in stolen
cars,
anything to escape this
place for a single moment
if only in the back
of our minds,
we were born to 
fuck then fight,
take too many drugs
and burn fingertips
on cigarettes singed to 
the filter
just because our
enviroment didn't
provide us with much
more to do.
In our wake,
we've left a dozen
broken hearts,
scarred minds
and hoarse voices
for therapists,
AA and doctors
to fix because
by the time we hit 
fourty it's over,
we've done the damage....
we've grown tired
and bitter,
and it is now 
someone else's
problem.
What am I
trying to say?
Nothing much,
really,
just speaking to speak
I haven't placed pen
to paper in so long
I've forgotten the way,
torch the textbooks
and make some light
to show me...
there's another path
in this hole we've dug,
look there....
up ahead in the distance:

Typewriters are no different
from the afformentioned piano,
they just make better music.

Ted Jackins recently relocated to Wilson, NC after years spent in the bowels of the city of Statesville. He asks that you just leave the light on but don't bother waiting up, he hates when you do that.