Transmission Begins...

Help me. I can hear sounds reverberating out from the wilting rose my life has become. Petals drop unheeded to the ground behind me, my footsteps leave them in the proverbial dust. Death, that lustful creature, that Peeping Tom in the windows of my mind, stalks ever onward, stopping for no one, for nothing. The floral arrangements on my casket remind me of so many wasted times, so many...yet so few. In the kitchen I hear water dripping softly on her lifeless, pale face; striken, I do a hundred yard dash on teh school track, ducking ever so slightly as the percussion/concussion of the bullet grazing the bleachers: THWANG!!!!

Are you awake, my son. Can you drink the wine, the wine that is my blood? Can you hear, hear the screaming in the streets, the cries that burn my soul like a hot forge does tempered steel. The cold, hard steel, stealing life, as it does so. What is my name, son, who will I be when you awake? Can you taste my flesh? So sweet, yet so...invasive. I meander my way to the light, all the time in the world..where were you when they crucified the lord?

1. Think of my as Intrument #127-934, you know my electrical impulses, plug me in, my friend, you know all the buttons to push, don't you? Can you swiftly bypass my blood clots, my firewall? Do you relate to me your feelings, or merely transcribe them to me, like a master to his Dictaphone? I am your solution, a resotution, betray my trust funds...an ever eventful life lies ahead.

2. The child awoke swiftly, hearing the scarpe of his fate across the window. "Wh-who's there?" he asked. No answer came back to him, aside from the wind moaning like the living dead outside. I guess it was a dream, he thought to himself, as he closed his eyes once again. But the child forgot. He forgot. He forgot. He forgot. He forgot. He forgot. He forgot. He forgot. he forgot. He forgot. He forgot. He remembered. What did he remember? He remembered that his prayer went unanswered. In the light of day, no one saved him from himself. In the dead of night, no one saved him from the monsters in his closet. No one even bothered to write back, tell him it is okay, and not to worry. No one decided that a child shouldn't have to deal with these adult issues. He is only 9, but in his mind he is criminally detached. It is a crime, I say, to teh street light. To the frog, croaking, as he dies. To the fire hydrant, save me now, I am parked in this vacant lot, where is heaven from here?

The transmission begins to fade, leaving a loud scratching frequency in the air. The static cuts me, and as I begin to bleed, I wonder where the transmission began, and is it over...yet.

I don't get it...kind of interesting though....