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You were a rough silhouette cast by the bare bulb above, apologies tacked crudely to your stained t-shirt.  The sticky, matted hair atop your slumped head poorly contrasting the vacant eyes you’d fixed on the solitary brass casing ornamenting the tile by your feet. What a fucking mess you’ve made.

Opportunity Man 1 is in his early to mid thirties, clean shaven, dressing the part of an aspiring corporate lackey.  He has an air of disappointment with his life but attempts to hide it through being overly boastful of his limited achievements. Man 2 is of the same age, perhaps slightly younger.  He is professionally dressed yet still maintains an air of individuality and eccentricity.  He often comes across as if he's always in control. [Lights are off, an emergency light flickers from the back wall] [Man 1 is pushed on stage, bound to an office chair, mouth taped shut.  He rolls across the stage until running into file cabinets, stoppi

1.  How I yearn for it;     the clean, crisp feel of summer     on my eager face. 2.  Cramped in this clutter     I watch as the breeze breezes by;     more free than myself. 3.  Many beams of sunlight     arrested by the window     can never find me. 4.  Countless shades of green,     together by simple fate     steal my affections. 5.  Tiny blades of grass     erupting between my toes;     small shreds of pure bliss.

Pulsing, penetrating, this phalanx of pain protruding from my head; shatters even subtle thought instantly.

Sometimes          I think               of great things,                    ideas that truly bloom,                         patterns that come to fruition,                    chords that resonate beautifully:               surpassed by none;          and then -- it's gone.

                                                      Hanging (damn clouds)                                                      Zeppelin (speakers work wonders) It's always DARK, a little bit chilly.                            Want a sweater? Sunshine is distant                                                      Warmer somewhere else.                                                               (Never here) Cup of TEA?                            My small shred of wet ZEN.                                                                             [pitter patter]                  It's raining, again. It's always DARK; c

In some dim, darkened foyer you rest, snow floating through the vacant glass plane of your window. Apologies crudely tacked to your stained t-shirt. A rough silhouette dimly illuminated by the bare 60 watt bulb dangling low over head. The dark matted hair atop your head a dim contrast to your still glazed eyes seemingly fixated on the lone brass casing dressing the floor infront of your feet, an orphaned excrimant of the nickel plated vacation get-away you had so longed for. Vicariously you'll find your paradise.

I slammed forward the slide, angry, frustrated.  Not with the cold titanium plated pistol laced in my fingers, but with everything. I felt like putting a bullet between the eyes of every idiot in the place. The safety on a handgun is merely the manufacturer's way of making you think twice before you squeeze a round into that asshole standing next to you… Last minute thoughts never appealed to me. I glared towards the sky, god looked my in the eyes as I thanked him for hollow-points.  Little bits of the devil himself; pain, suffering, death, all wrapped in a copper jacket. Cold steel was comforting.  .40 caliber, double action, cold,

Fleet feet do flourish following the rain, Asphalt pounding beneath their bloody feet. Our minds filled with ace thoughts, nought of our pain. Our souls, thus, infused into every street. A distant goal doth drive us towards our plight. Under scorching fingers of distant sun, Ceaselessly we tread through day, though dark night. Each aching mile we continue our run. Bodies worn, embraced by the deep depths; death. Hit the Earth, fall onto the muddy ground. Tasting dirt, our lungs draw their final breath. More alive, we still breathe, our hearts do pound. Each man runs his own race; we though, are still Brothers, forged in sweat, bl