Quotes from Scott C. Holstad

I wish to walk arm in arm, hand in hand without your fears pervading, without my feeling that others are staring. I wish to lose the fog and retain you, your radiance, your strength, your essence.

No one is asked whether they wish/ To be born. Everyone is asked to die. / Life is comprised of the noisy silence / One makes of it.

I'll be damned if my family, uncles, cousins fought, bled, sacrificed all on foreign beaches to free millions of people being tortured and killed by insane genocidal fascists AS WELL AS trying to keep the rest of the world safe from these evil monsters, only to find some decades later, flags bearing Swastikas being planted in American soil, if not eventually American political buildings and agencies!

sweat streaming killing hard in over kill i wake up screaming there's nothing to be done but go at it again

today is a good day for murder love hatred sex violence drugs revisionist attitudes anarchy of the sense letters and the like teatime exists in the MinD snarling underground day addiction

why do they think that when you are occupied reading the L.A. Times or perhaps a fine novel that in reality you are dying of loneliness and in specific need of their company?

In the space of two mere weeks, I have come to know the meaning of life. I won't share it with you, because we all have to find our own meaning. Camus was right, though. Sometimes, I feel just like Meursault.

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

dancing with death when he whispers in your ear is a very erotic moment in a man's life and it may not have happened yet for me but he's sent his assistants many times to try me out. we've all been failures much to death's disappointment

feeling the fear hysteria in mass murder town 83-year-old woman shot thru eye convenience clerk nothing taken says it's pointless junked out killer on lam killing for art's sake THIS is my art judge me now.

i allowed you to destroy me, my self-confidence, my ego, my identity as a human being and as a man. for years i was a shadow of my former self. the pain you caused was brutal and intense but i have a new life and a new incarnation and you're hardly worth thinking about anymore and being free at last of your clutches, I have a new world to look forward to.

do you hate yourself i wonder? you can't expect others to accept you until you've been able to accept yourself. sometimes i think i can really feel the pain. i've been there, i live there. but if you can make it through, nothing will beat you. you know the madhouses are full of emotional suicides. let's just take it day by day.

People tend to get nervous when you stare at them. They are racked with enough insecurities as it is. They always look away, glance back quickly and look away again. Some part of them melts and as they attempt to gather themselves, their flesh forms puddles at their feet.

the words on the paper im readin are blarin out at me loud an angrylike tellin me there's no end to the recession theres no jobs theres no peace theres no hope man an people wonder why i do what i do? an bums are bummin lights from me and babies are squintin up at me an my coffee is rupturing my gut bitterlike an i guess the world is kinda like the coffee sometimes – ill be suffering thru both tomorrow.

i'm still waiting for someone to kick in the groove wake us up get the juices flowing and you know the shit gets more stale a little more square every day and we're diggin our own grave jumpin in head first and still we cry out for leaders to take us away start the groove over but the tunes are the same doesn't really matter where you start.

she told me that a friend of hers had heard of me and exclaimed "he's disturbing to read." now i like that – "disturbing to read: -- like popping pills or pushing the plunger down, like big knives and rusty razors. i'm fucking disturbing – let me disturb you too

well it's almost noon and i've done nothing all day, all my great plans shot to hell, of getting up at 7 and writing 3 new poems 1 new story 5 letters of sending out submissions to 4 new magazines and making several phone calls all by noon – so i'll just keep drinking coffee and reading from the stack of books on my kitchen table and maybe i'll go catch a flick and maybe just maybe i'll get half as much done tomorrow.

i thought to myself well if there's a sucker out there it may as well be me for believing this jerk would stay in business if he paid all his writers like he was going to pay me. i mean he must not have even realized that poetry doesn't sell!

Which is worse? The horror of waking up alone or the horror of waking up next to someone else?

i am sometimes afraid of the loner in me and of what is inside you your need to merge become one to see the world through another pair of eyes I'm afraid i need to retain my identity

I look at the world like frost in a windowpane, confused, unseeing, and I wait for a solution which will never come. I see the world through eyes glazed over, searching for relief from the ungodly pain. Fuck the stigma. I just want normalcy.

I sit in the coffee shop waiting for night and I watch the same people scratch their asses at the same tables behind the same windows. I think of Camus, lovely and brittle, and the gunman on the sands and know I'll be here tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow with these lovely blue-gray sharks dwarfing the evening with their self-important air, looking into the murky bottoms of coffee cups and smoking my never-ending cigarettes.

You're like a book I hate to read, a story I want to skip through to the end. You take my soul and blow me straight into hell. I'm high on wigged out poems, short shorts that don't stop. Am I dead? I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S REAL! What about you?

i've been killed so many times, i can't begin to count the carcasses. my dreams provide plenty of ammunition for me, murdered most mercilessly and it never freaking ends,