TrashMan

LOCAL TRASHMAN BEATING ON A TRASHCAN

He's playing screamo at 3am, his thoughts are wild and his mind is crazed. Can't stop to think, to breathe, to look, to see--- this is his life and he's going off the wires. No one can stop him, he's stealing all your girls! Don't be fooled, you men ain't safe either-- he's going for girls, guys, he's going for it all and he doesn't give a darn!

He's twisting over here, he's looped up over there, his eyes are in three different directions and there's a straw in his nose. He can't help but hurt those around him though he'd never wanna hurt a fly, at 4am he's banging his head and he's probably crying.

His wings are often mangled, his looks can't win the girls. He's got a handful of friends who love him for what he's worth. He's the fire of the party, he's the first one to pass out. At 5am he doesn't move and only stares at the ceiling, wondering what he's worth, what they're worth, why he's there, why he feels this way-- throwing up beside him, he'd had too much tonight.

At 3pm he's up again, groaning and moaning. The light hurts his eyes and he's taking a swig of water, checking to find he's been invited again. This is who he is, it's all he is, he doesn't think he can be anything more.

He wants to change, he wishes he could-- but by 7pm he's out the door. Headbanging, screaming the lyrics, running through the yards. It's dark outside, his stomach growls but he sure can't stomach it.

Its 9pm, it's happening again, he just can't see his hands. They're blurry and moving in front of him, who was that dude at his side? How did he get here? Where'd they go?

What was the point to all of this?

Nevermind that-- he's chugging another down, grabbed by an unknown hand and taken back off to wonderland..

At 3am the screamos still on, some of the party is dead. He's still twisting and flailing about, fiery eyes practically glowing red. No one can stop him because nobody cares, he's probably better off dead.

He's begging them to stay, grovelling at their feet in the filth of the floor. He can't stand up himself, the whole room sways and even they're blurred out, He can see them looking down at him but their expression is unknown to him, regardless he just grabs at their legs, pleading.

He can't lose someone else, please, please don't go. He could change, he could get better, he could stop this cycle-- he's sorry for scaring them, for concerning them, for not paying enough attention to all those little things. He's so so sorry, he can redo it all again! If they just gave him a chance, that small chance for him to change, he wants to get better, he'll get better for them, please.

He's weeping on the floor now, the room is empty and everything still spins. He isn't sure how long he's been alone but it doesn't quite matter. Maybe he deserves this. Maybe he can't blame them for leaving.

Though, one thing is for sure: he's going to do it all again tomorrow.

Dressed up in a business suit with his tie on the wrong way, looking scruffy, feeling just the same way. His mind wanders elsewhere before they knock some sense into him, he's gotta get this done if he wants things to stay the same. He puts on his shoes and gets on his feet, saying farewell and going out the door.

Sometimes, things just look so strange. There's others on the street, no partying going on, everything's just so plain. He'd rather get a drink and chill out at the house but no, this is what he's gotta do. Heading down the flock of others he soon arrives at his destination, gulping and entering on in.

Black and white is the best way to describe it, it's mandatory, nothing else fits in. He's feeling out of place with all of his colors but for now, he hides them within. It's hard to stay focused, hard to concentrate, there's no blaring noise. How do people do this? Everyday for so long, he can hardly stand it, can't take no more---

But when it's all over he gets to retreat, colors exposed back at home. They're cupping his face and are all over him, is it worth it? He can't tell. They make him feel warm which is all he'd ever want, it's a reminder that he's got a beating heart.

And yet he can't help but wonder what it'd be like if he just went away today.

He just isn't himself anymore. No one seems to see it aside from his own eyes, a face he can't recognize. Who is that staring at him? His own reflection, from afar? It couldn't be, it shouldn't be, this isn't who he was to become.

Nothing seems to change nowadays. No matter how many times he washes or scrubs his face won't change.

Is it stuck that way?

No one seems to notice so maybe it can't be seen. Things can go on this way, no one knows, no one knows, it's okay this way. He avoids looking at himself, no one says a thing, no one seems to know. Only him. Maybe if he doesn't look at the problem it'll just go away. He'll forget about it, that or it'll disappear. Is it a problem if he can't see it?

Of course not.

That's his new ideology.