Quotes from Scott C. Holstad

Oh God, don't you want us to live, to stop killing ourselves? Will they come to see me when I die? Which begs the question, what about now? They say you need other people in your life, but do they need you? Do they?

oh great, more Really Important People sitting down beside me with their damned mobile phones to screech in LOUD voices condos resale values, great new stock options, frequent flyer miles, who is fucking whom… actually, i think the rest of us are being screwed by these social leeches but god they look good don't they

on sale today we have Doubts, Insecurities, Depression and Guilt for reduced prices, in this section Self-Hatred, Suicidal Ideation and Anger. that section there has Betrayal, Inferiority, Hostility and Frustration, but in the back, the best … Confusion, Apathy, Paranoia, Irritation and the beloved Need-To-Kiss-Ass-At-Work all on sale for very, very low prices…

one night i saw the black widow crawling on my bed and the fear coursing through my veins felt like the best kind of hell

Orange fluff ball, Rocky is an 18-pound marvel of love, so fluffy, he looks like he's 26 pounds. He scares the local dogs just by sitting and staring at them. Rocky's there for me when I get home, purrs when he wants to, leads me to the food bowl when he needs to, licks me in an attempt to heal my wounds, loves cellophane, red ribbons, left over chicken. Rocky, my best friend, is my orange fluff ball, and I wish I could share him with the world.

Outside, the birds sang to each other, words of wisdom, clouds of the finest smoke, a mob of blue jays descended on the bird feeder, the light still peachy. If there are lessons to be Learned and gauntlets run, If you remain holy, The seed will be taken right from your hand.

pictures of life grinding to a halt decorating walls movement in dead motion limbs askew mouths stretched wide in motionless scream. art as we see it – feeling it's another story. so does art imitate life or does life imitate A—R—T and where does it end – on cold walls before disinterested observers?

pound for pound, the best one of the bunch, a fighter, scratcher, pit bull, she can nail 'em to the floor in one second flat, her body's beautiful, but her mind's a work of art, whirling madly, twisting and turning, she's a REAL woman and she won't let you forget it

she had this inherent need to create a new identity for each and every occasion, to become someone different every day to mask the emptiness, the pain of true isolation. If you tried you could smell the death surrounding her; a dead soul is black regardless of what it may be wearing.

She watched the smoke from the cigarette ooze slowly up to the ceiling, form into a nebulous cloud above her head like some miniature L.A. and then glanced at me. "Open the window, the room smells." As I struggled with the lock, I noticed the cracks in the pane looked like so many veins in her wrist, pulsing, throbbing, making rivers of passion and death.

So little of what we observe is Actuality. Do we see/hear the words pouring forth? Are they Truth? I wish and hope but my future is predestined per my parents' belief and that is denial and death, the deepest pits of hell, the thorniest of crowns, no sympathy, simply guilt, pain, anguish and lament. Call me your Anti-Savior and I'll take on your pain too.

so there we are, golden drones droning in unison. this is the West man, the pinnacle of civilization. this is where it started man. Come visit my culture. come culture my vision. we all own Automobiles here too. 87 greyhounds died in a fire today. someone lost some bucks.

spent some time gittin juiced on the junk you know and the poems would come thick and black, coffeelike, a little bitter you know and when the pores started jiving and all it'd be time to git on down and groove, let the words flow forth, try not to suffocate, live one more day.

Strangers frighten me. They remind me of you. Blood spills into the tub. Cramped quarters. Essence of fire. And garlic. Sweaty palms and images of the Diva rock me. Is it too late? Is it? Strangers frighten me. I dance puppet steps killing me hundreds of times over and over; I have a sickness to battle with you always there waiting.

The street outside my window is one of a million likeminded Los Angeles streets. Taggers, homeless, families and lovers, thieves and beggars, running children and old women, churches, bars, corner stores, Spanish, Cambodian and Armenian words and accents. I want to hug my street and all within, to feel the throbbing pulse beating its steady rhythm.

there are no fucking miracles aside from the fact that i'm still alive and far too many other people are too - why in the world people aren't throwing themselves off bridges in droves i'll never know

There are two of me now, old and disfigured, new and disheveled. A crinkled, yellow newspaper balled up in the fireplace, spidery face, rotted jaw, sewn and resewn.

There's a big hole in people, even the long legged ones, and they eat and eat because they don't want to die; at least they want to revel in their misery for one more day, and they look back at me with suspicious eyes and then they go back to their dead life and dream of peace and love and compassion, and I continue to stare at them in a blurred stupor.

War is the true Nature of the world, a dog with matted fur lapping eagerly at the bloody Nile, wagging its threadbare tail the entire time.

We are the people in cheap hotels and tenement housing walking down side alleys talking to ourselves. We are the people the pushers the whores the crackheads the gunrunners the bangers the pimps the homeless the outlaws the crippled the freaks the damned. Drink to us my friends for we are the forgotten.

we dream of peace and tranquility, the day when we no longer despair but our self-imposed angst cannot be avoided. we can't run. it won't go away. the noises i hear in my hell are very real and i'll continue to exist in an interested sort of anguish, looking for bloodstains on acid free sidewalks.

We look through the sights, squeeze the trigger and the toy soldiers go flying, dying hard but smiling in the process. The toy maker should be laughing the whole way to the bank but Nietzsche said he was dead too.

we met shoe shopping and she asked me out. over drinks she said aren't you going to kiss me? when i dumped her over the phone four months later, she told me i had been a lovely person to love.

we sweat through our doldrums somehow, sheer insane boredom; society can no longer focus and my poems keep drying up and blowing away.