I Am . . .

June 29, 2011

I’m fucking riled up and irritated. Anxiety is creeping into my blood stream exploding in my brain and heart. Imaginary convulsions. Public anxiety. Private anxiety. What’s the difference?

 

I feel safe for a while then it happens all over again. One bad apple spoils the fucking tree. Fuck that apple and the tree and the branches and the roots. Fuck you too.

 

Question my capabilities. You threaten my art. You are nothing. What have you done? Who are you?

 

I am Rich Hillen Jr. I am an American artist. I am a dream. I am a nightmare. I am sick. I forget that sometimes. Why does it seem that people bring out the disease? Make it worse.

 

“Snap out of it.” “Force yourself to do it” “ Get over it” “Move on.” “Just do it” “Do this” Do that”

 

Fuck you.

 

I do what I can when I can the best I can and that’s all there is to it. You don’t like it then leave me the fuck alone. Go. Now.

 

I can’t take people’s opinions, advice, recommendations, suggestions, demands, orders or anything you have to say that doesn’t support what I am doing.

 

Look, you don’t know what it’s like to to be me. To be infected with several diseases. Inflicted for life. Like it or not.

 

Even with my problems, even with what you view as me being lazy or rebellious or whatever, I have done more than you can dream of. I’ve been a rock star, an artist, made more money than you, fucked more than you, lived, truly lived more than you ever will.

 

Through my inferiority I see that I am superior to you. I’m not going to let you destroy me.


Stick to the Ground – A POEM

June 18, 2010

I wrote this on November 14th 2009. It was a bad week.

I feel the needles pressing my skin. Pressing harder and harder until they penetrate every part of my sexual appetite. I’m hungry and I can’t eat. Broken, poor, jaded yet lucid. I cry for more and I get less. I don’t want more and I get too much. The time it takes to get what I want isn’t worth the sheet of paper I write on. The terrible headaches and body spasms are permanent. I’ve come to believe that I believe in nothing. Pleasure has slipped away and pain is my best friend. The kind of friend that betrays you the minute you turn your back. Crying is useless and laughing is fake.

I spit on the ground and wait and watch and wait and watch and it doesn’t dry up. It stays there like the thoughts and obsessions of a possessed man. No dreams or passion. Only nightmarish obsessions sticking to the ground.

I eat what I see and see what I eat. I barely live on my own mind’s eye. Splintered vision separates me from you. I see only what I want. You see a ravished slave to his desires. I see a man living hand to mouth and ass to mouth. Shit. I hate when life creeps up on me and gives me what I deserve.

Maybe if I hide under a blanket of memories it will feel better. No. I have no memories. They go as fast as I come. Faster.


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