Click here for nice stories main menu

main menu   |   standard categories   |   authors   |   new stories   |   search   |   links   |   settings   |   author tools

Feeling the Fire Again (standard:poetry, 404 words)
Author: Finn McKoolAdded: Mar 02 2001Views/Reads: 2033/3Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
lately a couple of friends and i were discussing how we seem to have lost the fire.

I need blood. 

Gallons of it. 

I need it pumping through my veins like a freight train, with vessels
bursting and heat searing every nerve.  I need to burn again.  Take 
arms and fight anything and every thing.  I need to tear off my clothes 
and run naked to the thudding drums of my own heart beat. 

I need to fight and fuck and drive and see and hear and smell and touch
and taste.  I need to look The Hurricane in the eye and see life in 
death.  Some people see death on the battlefield.  I'm fighting it's 
insidious slowness.  Its mediocre and dull blade, rusty and 

I need to smoke a carton and drink a gallon.  Guzzle life out of the
empty skull of a bear or wolf and tear at its raw flesh with my teeth.  
I need to burn and set a fire around me twenty one feet high. DAMN THE 

I look around me and see the people.  They all got the game pulled over
their eyes.  The right clothes and look and car and job to support 
their tabloid habits.  That's death.  Its slow. I get the fear and 
lothing when I realize I'm just as blind as them.  Worse, cause I've 
seen more, and heard more and ought to fucking know better. Another 
leetle monkey face drinking vine beneath ze villow trees. 

Does this make you uncomfortable?  Good.  Cause I've been comfortable
for way too fucking long and let me tell you, to hell with cigarettes 
and cancer, being comfortable is the slowest death there is.  Fuck it 
all!  Because I have grown comfortable.  I've grown mold and let my 
hair grow out.  I wore a false beard and a wig, and tried to hide who I 
was because I thought that was the something different I needed.  
Beacause I thought that's who everyone wanted me to be.  Fuck them too. 

Is this a rambling diatribe?  Hell yes!  I'm raging.  Raging against the
dying of the light!  Thomas Dylan knew.  I want to blare rock music and 
shoot down the stars!  I want to swallow the sun!  The world is hard, 
life sucks, wear a fucking helmet!  But I wanna take it on, and I'll 
die doing it.  Shot down in flames but at least I'll be on fire again. 

I need to burn.  I need blood. 


Authors appreciate feedback!
Please vote, and write to the authors to tell them what you liked or didn't like about the story!
Finn McKool has 47 active stories on this site.
Profile for Finn McKool, incl. all stories
Due to abuse, voting is disabled.
For a quick, anonymous response to the author of this story, type
a message below. It will be sent to the author by email.

stories in "poetry"   |   all stories by "Finn McKool"  

Nice Stories @, support email: nice at nicestories dot com
Powered by StoryEngine v1.00 © 2000-2014 - Artware Internet Consultancy BV