Quotes from Scott C. Holstad

What I mean to say is no, I don't want her back, just words hanging like leaves from a tree limb, nothing can bring her back anyway; words wouldn't build her bit by bit, piece by piece, she's gone, and there is strength in knowing that. Maybe the longing will ease. Maybe the seconds will lapse into minutes. I'm not Christ – I can't raise the dead.

You cried out in your sleep last night, steel toe boots doing dances in your head. It's raining now and no one cares. Palmetto trees stand guard outside. He died last night, actually at 7:45 this morning. Will you cry? Will you?

We wake up, breathe, live life often against our wishes and our better judgement. We console ourselves by telling ourselves this is no fault of our own but that doesn't take away the reality of the pain, the streaming dreams, the utter shock of life, the shattered pieces of survival.

Winter, and You are the only Possibilities in this World. Paper, pen, Teeth, bones, and skin, The future is now. How will you make This work, snowflakes Against the window, Every ounce of pain Like blood on my lips.

We share this moment not through touch but our eyes, yours brilliant, shining, willing, wanting to know feel the pain, understand, mine dead to the world, a bleak history of empty files

i often wonder at what point my thoughts cease to be my reality and simply merge with my dreams to become my fiction, my life.

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

a beautiful girl spoke to me today thru little honey'd whispers dreaming icicles streams of words mouth moving saying much in little tones traveling passionately into distant lands far off hopes stranger's arms a hoped-for death told her secret.

I've wanted to die for a long time and one day, I'm going out like a Texas lightning storm – big, bold, beautiful, deadly, dead and done with.

when it's time to break down and you're lying in bed fighting off the urge to scream, when you're lying there shivering, it's not the memories that keep you going. instead it's the dreams and the cats blaring evil and godlike into the blankness. at times like this, it's best just to sit back and let what is be.

I woke last night from a nightmare in which I saw a malignant society of pathological liars racked with insecurities, consumed by guilt, screaming for violence and I noticed I was sweating most profusely as I thanked the heavens above that it was only a dream before turning on the light to get a cigarette.

The few who are ballsy enough to actually live wind up in madhouses, tortured by actuality. We all wind up in the same place anyhow … food for unseeing worms.

Two aphorisms I advocate and live by: 1) "Those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it." (Actually, this is a common mis-quotation from the source, George Santayana, who wrote specifically in Vol. I, Reason in Common Sense from his book, The Life of Reason: The Phases of Human Progress, "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it." 2) "NO religion can stand up to two words: PROVE IT!" (Source unknown).

she said i want you to meet him you'll like him really yeah i thought like car crash broken glass rusty razored underwear barbed wire cheer acid fear like walking down normandie naked nightly like tiger claws 'n earthquake falls i'll really relish meeting 'm.

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

lately I've been feeling like I've been mellowing out a bit and at those times my wife lovely reassures me by saying, no, you're still the same uptight bastard you've always been

what society dictates we consume cattle gathering around learning devices called television mouths opening wider while addictive morsels of consumerism are violently jammed into us and we lose more bits and pieces of our collective identity daily

anyway i saw it coming from the rooftops. they said the second coming was heading our way tomorrow's world today force fed to us in a tobacco-colored spoon keep us entertained – content - oppressed. we prayed, friend, and they brought it down.

If I killed myself now would I make the papers would anyone care I already know the answer to that besides it's irrelevant

i am nothing but bits of paper, grains of sand pressed hot against hard flesh, campfires burning bright against the still night. i am man?flesh human life walking ~ dreaming, twitching under the noonday sun.

Sure, I've written about women and sex and madhouses, just like Bukowski did, but I've also written about many other topics, often utilizing other stylistic methods in doing so. Bukowski would probably have been annoyed with the rambling tone of my poems in Cells.

of course i have learned over the years that my fantasies are always better than reality and i leave it at that.

today, suffering from drawn out hangover, the world ran dry. Bukowski died and one third of the world's winemakers will go broke.

The fact that we are still sitting on and depending on technical protocols nearly a half century old is a testament to the genius of those who invented everything from such inventions, protocols and standards like Ethernet to personal computers that were more than just circuit boards for geeks, but actually had small GUI interfaces, as well as connected devices such as a mouse and keyboard.