Quotes from Scott C. Holstad

A smile cures all forms of sickness, yet behind many smiles lies a set of very sharp teeth, carnivorous and rarely satisfied.

angry, violent, bizarre, we're obscene in our lust, oblivious in our pain. i'm a man driven by my passions. sometimes I desire normalcy but then my brain wakes up and i return to reality.

apparitions of stick people torment me, of skeletal phantoms walking in rain deathly dead stick arms upraised to the gods. i knew one such apparition once, cheated of life by a diseased society intent upon deprivation of body and soul, identity as we would have it. i am haunted at times by what could have been.

Ashes keep drifting onto my paper, charcoal snowflakes on a minefield of blanks, words bouncing around off each other uttering impotent images of sight sound terror life crying for recognition, narcissistic eunuchs reflecting my face, ruining the snowfield.

Blank paper before me; fresh snow fall, tracks slowly appearing, my future mapped out, my life, my day. Minute by minute, laboriously, every nook, every cranny exposed. This is my true life, I think while wondering what became of the person I used to be.

bonds are formed, death with the dead, those with no hope, the despair written in their eyes selling bit & pieces of shit called food for an extra sheet to put over their shivering bodies

Bronchial fix, lung lining expanding again, pounding holes, stabbing me in the back, bacterial traitor, wheezing breath from me, giving me the wonderful opportunity to take panting lessons from Rover.

Bukowski was wrong. these words don't matter. you pound them out and send them off and they're gone just like that and all you're left with is a blank screen staring you in the face.

caffeine buzz liquid thrill, chills slowly going down kinda wicked 'n edgy like legs spread wide in razor wrapped dreams, like looking glass lust on lsd, like wigged out flesh of lightening fear, like fried out bits of lovers angst, i lust at you, i live for you, i want you here w/ me

caffeine fixture, liquid buzz, kinda makes the juices curl inside and out like having a pair of powdery legs wrapped tightly around your neck – strong and just a little wicked

chain link heat, a little over whelming some times when the sweat runs down your body like so many open veins jagged and throbbing

Counting sheep no longer works. The day comes crashing down on you and you can't escape it. You go home, have two shots of Jack, look through the bills, fix yourself a TV dinner, watch the Lakers lose another one, take a bath, think briefly of cutting your wrists knowing you don't have the guts to do it, and you go to bed. So much for the sheep.

Fragments of poems are Leaking out through the Blood… If you listen closely, You can hear the sounds of windows closing, locking, being sealed. I believe in you and yours Do you Me and mine?

fuck 'em all. i wear my pain proudly like a loud scarf around some Manhattan bitch's neck and i hold the leash of the poodle otherwise known as Dead To The World proudly in front of me as it takes a shit on the lawn of city hall

glazed eyes staring stupid looking at nothing and seeing everything born of and into ignorance what society dictates we consume cattle gathering around learning devices called television

Have you ever seen somebody die? It's not like in the movies, not to me. You don't close their peaceful eyes and pray for their soul. Rather their eyes are full of horror. People say taken in the flower of their youth, how sad yet these people get to escape a lifetime of hell and still people mourn. I laugh in honor of the dead. may they rot in peace.

here with you and it just doesn't seem real sometimes and wanting to know you what you look like when I'm not with you what you think when you're in bed at night what made you cry the other day wanting to bury myself inside you and burrow into you can't get out never get out and become you live you be you

i always like trying to catch a bus in a new city wondering how will i know which one to take and simply deciding this one as it pulls up and looking at the natives looking at me and getting off at the end wondering where the hell i am and how will i get back.

maybe it's just my imagination but I can smell the stench of a decaying humanity wallowing in the throes of hypocrisy, apathy, misery and I take a DEEP breath before stepping out.

My advisors tell me I've been poisoned and that I do it to myself, but their tongues speak only half-truths, for I was born to suffer, and that is truth incarnate.

My playing fields were comprised of a black and white universe – cold/hot, light/dark, heaven/hell, right/wrong – this, my guide, my birthright. Something was buried in the back of my soul – the signs were all there but no one knew, no one could tell so when I eventually went over the edge, it was meant to be a lesson learned.

Naming is power, you know. That's what they say at least. My parents exhausted universal power in first creating me and then in naming me. They created for me an identity whether I wanted one or not.

nighttime, the pain returns rippling mind effects disunity lust objects found like shower breeze crashing down on a beaten psyche; disjointed love turns evil with the night

no one sees, no one hears cries of despair not very dreamlike; a sense that we're all robots controlled by psychotic state of mind these days. Orwell wasn't far off, just a few years.