TheLegendsLeague

Toronto, Canada
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NIKE vs KRINK: Air Max Series

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The idea to merge 2 of my favorite brands came after I saw that KRINK has a Tiffany coloured K-60 marker. I picked it up and as soon as I got home I tried to draw a Tiffany Dunk Low on a piece of cardboard I found in my garbage. The result was okay, but it was too illustrative and obvious so I did another version that was just the stripped down aspects of the shoes colour blocking. Although the shape wasn’t true to form, the idea was clear. The cardboard scrap turned out to be perfect for both blacks and whites to pop off of so I did a couple more silhouettes at different sizes trying to find the right combination of scale, simplifying the colour blocking of the silhouette, dripping the ink and maintaining the integrity of the structure of the shoe. After completing a few tests I found that going too simple meant the shoe didn’t look right, but being too complicated meant the ink pooled up onto itself and the result looked like a melted cake. I also found that the bigger the canvas I had the better the composition looked for overall size to drip pattern ratio. Still working on perfecting this, but here’s Series 1 of my NIKE vs. KRINK project.

Big thank you to KRINK NYC and NIKE Canada for their support and involvement in this personal project of mine.

NIKE vs KRINK: Series 1 – Air Max 1 / Air Max 90 / Air Max 95

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Searching for Lois Lane

I’m no hero nor man of steel.
Not caped not capable of flying skills.
I can’t will kids to know my name
Or rid worlds of societal ills.

I feel like sinking in a desk for filing clerks
To find my worth through blinding work
And maybe pay off a pile of bills.
And maybe win me a Lois Lane.

Under a mask
She wouldn’t know my name.
And I’d be no hero
All the same.

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Toronto: The Screwface Capital

I’m from The Screwface Capital. That’s different than the current Toronto climate and it’s different than the internet world and it’s different than the I-share-your-work-if-you-share-mine power of “social media”. The 30-something’s I came up with in the game as an active hip-hop fan, as a party goer, b-boy, graphic designer for every rapper, event and start up company you can imagine know the truth and sincerity behind the name that Theo 3 so brilliantly gave us too many years ago. “The Screwface Capital”. Where we boo out of towners, where we rarely showed love for anyone, even our own, unless they were exceptionally good at this hip-hop shit. We’ve all seen people get jumped, bottled, beat down for being bullshit at their craft and trying to act like they were ill. There was no other platform to show your skills before but to come out to the events and show & prove in person. That’s how we came up. You couldn’t be trash or you’d get treated like Dead Fish. (If Dead Fish sees this, I apologize for using you as an example but you were shit). The climate is different now and people have changed. The world is smaller. The sharing is easier. The garbage is more rampant, but we can filter it to our liking with a greater sense of ease, at the same time being bombarded with the curses of self publishing dimwits. But what drove me as a 12 year old to start b-boying, to start drawing and start designing was the sincerity of the critics and those who stood up for a level of quality in our city that they wouldn’t let go tarnished. 20 years later I’m still involved in the Toronto creative landscape. My contribution in this space is far different than it was years ago, but I still do everything I can to hold true to the old fashioned mentality that garbage belongs in the trash. My latest project with Rich Kidd, Adam Bomb and Tona (Naturally Born Strangers) does something that I think is very important. It combines the worlds of creative minds who were PARTICIPANTS in the old Screwface Capital scene with the world of new sharing, spreading social communication. I can only speak for myself when I say this, but I hope it rings true with everyone that I’ve met from 1994 to present day in this Toronto Hip-Hop shit – You do not have to do anything that you don’t want to. You don’t have to go to shows, buy merchandise, support peoples art, clothing lines, mixtapes, youth lead initiatives, charities or pages on Facebook for all that matters. You shouldn’t if you don’t feel it. If there is something you find dope, worthwhile and worth sharing, support THAT. That’s called filtering your own sense of quality and curating what you choose to distinguish as great from garbage in the public and quickly global eye. The Screwface Capital mentality is necessary. Champion the good and ignore the filler. That’s how Toronto will stay winning without being on some kumbaya, hand holding two-step weird shit. Change soon come for some. Thanks to everyone for their support.

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TheLegendsLeague: The BHBG Collection

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After much anticipation, about 1000 preview pics on my Instagram account and a helluva lot of questions about when items were going to be available, I’m stoked to announce the release of our Broken Heart Bastard Gang Collection. This drop features 9 new tees including a pocket tee, a baseball tee, 3 long sleeve shirts, 2 crewnecks, 2 hoodies and 3 hats including the return of our Die Enormous toque. Select items from the collection are available at Livestock Toronto / Gastown / West 4th, Capsule Toronto, NRML Ottawa, Old Souls Regina, Loop Waterloo, Flatspot Hamilton, The Urban Bakery Winnipeg and will be online at www.thelegendsleague.com this Friday.


Flying Fucks Pocket Tee
Repurposing the AC/DC logo, Flying Fucks is a simultaneous “fuck you / fuck me”; an alternating and direct communication of the gut of the BHBG concept – that we’re both broken down by others and by the sinkholes within ourselves.

Flying Fucks Pocket Tee Back

Flying Fucks Pocket Tee

Flying Fucks Pocket Tee Back


Have a Nice Die Tee
“I called to my men: “This is a good day to die: follow me.”…As we rushed upon them the soldiers dismounted to fire, but they did very poor shooting. They held their horse’s reins on one arm while they were shooting, but their horses were so frightened that they pulled the men all around and a great many of their shots went up into the air and did us no harm.” – Low Dog

Have a Nice Die Tee


BHBG Broken Heart Logo Tee
The Heartbroken Logo was originally used in our inaugural season for our “T.O. Don’t Love U” design. The logo hides the classic LL logo cracked out of the negative space of Milton Glaser’s iconic “I Love NY” heart. The sleeves feature the BH and BG letter locks respectively.

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Basura Tee
With the overwhelming use of jersey styled shirts and camouflage and floral patterns over the past couple of years, BASURA uses our “Trillium Shadouflage” (an original pattern that utilizes the official flower of the Province of Ontario and its cast shadows as a floral camouflage) to claim that a lot of brands use of these 3 trends is complete garbage.

Basura Tee Front


No Free Chances Tee & Crewneck
They don’t want us to rehabilitate, they want us to reoffend. They’re interest is not in our betterment, it’s in our detriment. The slimmest chances are sometimes our slivers of hope and we have no choice but to continue to try to get over. A bird in a cage knows the air but not the sky.

No Free Chances Tee

No Free Chances Crewneck


King of Sorrow Tee
Whether it’s self hatred, suffering from heartbreak or as slaves to vanity, we kill ourselves daily in the sorrows we don’t show. Succumbing to that suffering often results in sadness. Resistance to that suffering often results in anger. The King’s face is split into both of these emotions, half disheartened, half disgruntled, struggling with the wants to stay suppressed and the urge to change. We play the cards we’re dealt.

King of Sorrow Tee


We’re Dead To You Tee
We’re unknown the world over. Tell us something we don’t know. Fuck you very much.

We’re Dead To You Tee Back

We’re Dead To You Tee

We’re Dead To You Tee Back


Saints Tee & Long Sleeve Shirt
“He who is without sin, take my stone.”

Saints Tee

Saints Long Sleeve Shirt

Saints Long Sleeve Shirt


Wish You Were Her Tee & Crewneck
“I’m.. just being honest.” – Andre 3000

Wish You Were Her Crewneck


Grasscutters Long Sleeve Shirt
It was once believed that a snake cut into pieces would come back to life if the pieces were put together before sunset. This was the basis of the “Join or Die” cartoon originally created by Benjamin Franklin when representing the union of the 13 American colonies in 1754. When the money comes the bloodsuckers come out of the wood work and sometimes it becomes more and more necessary to cut the snakes from the circle. Needless to say, the old belief that a dead snake could be brought back to life has since been disproven.


BHBG Baseball Tee
Broken Heart Bastard Gang is a circle for the strangers, lesser thans, hurt, displaced and forgotten, all my homies with parents who passed, pissed off on us or shipped us to centers and placed us in cells. Kids forced to be adults, adults who never got to be kids, lovers, loathers, others and everyone out there just trying to get over.

BHBG Baseball Tee


BHBG All Logo Long Sleeve Shirt & Hoodie
Broken Heart Bastard Gang is a circle for the strangers, lesser thans, hurt, displaced and forgotten, all my homies with parents who passed, pissed off on us or shipped us to centers and placed us in cells. Kids forced to be adults, adults who never got to be kids, lovers, loathers, others and everyone out there just trying to get over.

BHBG All Logo Long Sleeve Shirt

BHBG All Logo Long Sleeve Hoodie


Valknut Trill Hoodie
A triangle is one of the strongest structural shapes since it only collapses to material fatigue under strong forces rather than geometric distortion. The Valknut is a series of interlocking triangles. Translated in Old Norse, the Valknut is the knot of the slain warriors; a reminder to hold on and be strong.

Valknut Trill Hoodie Front

Valknut Trill Hoodie Back

Valknut Trill Hoodie Front


Die Enormous Toque


Pennant Toque


Tomkins Cardigan Die Enormous Toque

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Mrs. Muzzlefield

Mrs. Muzzlefield
A story for adult children and childish adults by Bryan Espiritu

(Intro)
We tumble through the tundra
With a talk that tips
The comfort scale
Only finding humble
Is the fastest fate
To Famous fail.
Something must be sacred
But in days of raving
Ranting slop,
It seems that speaking dreams
Will rip the seams
Of cowards cloak and cloth.
It’s best if you,
From chest, choose to suppress
Your pressing urge to talk..

And muzzle all that
Heart
Felt
Thought.

And muzzle all that
Heart
Felt
Thought.

(Request for Change)

Dearest Mrs. Muzzlefield,
Won’t your pretty, “Muzzle-Me”
Stop me from the mumble bugs:
“Buffoonery”
And “Fuckery”.

Fumble me,
My mental worth and wear it in
With warping words.
Stare it in the mouth
And house its thirst
In layman’s terms for turds.

Mystic Mrs. Muzzlefield,
Make me more
A “Murmur Man”.
Muddle-make my messages
To funnel cake,
To flamalam.

Froth me from the “Fountain Pen”,
A picture worth a “nothing” word.
Whirl me in the “Smörgåsbord of Boredom”
Til I’m “sort-of” heard.

Maybe, Mrs. Muzzlefield,
We could wipe my conscious clean.
Fade it in a way
That womps my wants
To womps no wants have seen.

(That was quite the tangle twist
But surely there’s an end to that.)

We’ll limbo all my linguals
To a lisp and take them
Tit for tat.

(Dream-like Realization of the True World)

This Humbo Jumbo Mumble World
Is Talking Tonka, dumper trash.
Rock ‘em, Sock ‘em
Cockney rhyming slang;
Hap-hazard Haberdash

That whippersnaps a quip
And snaps a quote
On either end or end.
This blistered, baffled, bitter,
Bland and broke bullshit
Must bend or blend.

Make me, Mrs. Muzzlefield,
Make me more like them and them.
Take me to the message worth
A purple painted friender send.

Lend my yell a Megaphonic Speaker
For a “hear ye here”.
Tell my temple,
“Tempting trinkets,
Tricks and toys
Are nearly near”.

I will be the ballsy bastard
Boasting broads and brightly things.
Frothing from the face like every
Clown and cunt that likes these things.

Mystic Mother Muzzlefield,
Shut my shouts to sheltered sound.
Stop my thoughts with plugs that clog
The cogs and belts
Where “Tells” are found.

Limit “Lung” and “Lyric”
Lest they liken to the
Masses call.
Shove it where the summit
Of a scholars thought can
Plummet fall.

Zip it when the zenith
Of the scene I see
Is seen by some.
Mean it when
You make my mask
Uncomfortable
And cumbersome.

Mystic Mrs. Muzzlefield,
Make me like these liars here.
I’d like not to be old and past
But last like from a prior year.

Make me like the garbage talking,
Self inflating
Narcissists.
Make me like their defecating
Mouth manure
And fart for piss.

Make me tend and tolerate
The tepid things
These thinkers talk.
Make me take their train
Of thought and chain me to their
Link and lock.

Make me, Mrs. Muzzlefield,
Less and less
A knowledge hunt.
Take me, Mrs. Muzzlefield,
Where less and less
Is what they want.

(Transitional Thought)

Or maybe, Mrs. Muzzlefield,
Maybe what I just have sought..
Maybe, just a maybe
May be maker of my second thought.

(Realization of Independence)

Maybe, Mrs. Muzzlefield,
I don’t need a muzzle mask.
I might be a comet,
Thought like rockets rock
Like shuttle crash.

I might be a mouthy man but
Messages are worth the word.
Best to bleep the swears
But swear my curse can cure
The most absurd.

Oh,
Mrs., Mrs. Muzzlefield,
I’m okay just being me.
Hot, though I have not
The steam to see
Myself through these degrees.

Sought them,
But a doctrine,
Cap and gown
Will never judge my words.
Miss me, Mrs. Muzzlefield,
I’d much prefer
If I was heard.

I took your time, Miss Muzzlefield,
And for it I would kind return,
This lesson, Mrs. Muzzlefield
That silence is no way to learn.

I’ll talk and talk
Miss Muzzlefield,
A talk no talker talks
No more.
I sought the thought
That thinkers think and think
I’ve sought the proper score.

To be myself
In cell and skin,
In heart and whole,
In truth and task,
Oh, Mystic Mrs. Muzzlefield,
I know no usage
For your mask.

I bid thee, Mrs Muzzlefield,
A fond adieu, a glance behind,
And ask you fasten masks on
Every ass whose act is asinine.

It seems the symbol’s always missed
Or left mistaken for the sign.
It’s shame but not my shame to own
They mime more than they speak
Their mind.

(Outro)

We tumble through the tundra
With a talk that tips
The comfort scale
Only finding humble
Is the fastest fate
To Free prevail.
Something must be sacred
But in days of raving,
Ranting slop,
Sacred is the naked way
To contradict a cloak and cloth.
It’s best if you,
From chest, choose to address
Your pressing urge to talk.
And muzzle all that
Bull
Shit
Thought.

And muzzle all that
Bull
Shit
Thought.

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5 of the Coolest Kids in the History of the Planet Shoot Their #Outfitgrid

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You may have noticed some of your friends meticulously arranging their goods into grids for their outfit of the day pics on Instagram and hashtagging #outfitgrid. The official @outfitgrid account belongs to a dude named Dennis Todisco who I’ve never met but is someone I’ve followed for some time and has shown me, my work and my brand a lot of respect. This morning on Twitter I noticed that he and Hypebeast gave away $500 for the best #outfitgrid photo and the whole fit was basically black. I mean, I wear a lot of black, but a comment (which may or may not have been directly related to the winning outfit) from another dude I respect named William Yan caught my attention. He said “Wear some colour, it doesn’t kill”. This spurred the idea to “shoot” 5 of the coolest kids I’ve ever seen for their own outfitgrid pics and shit on everyone’s outfit of the day once and for all. The following is my interpretation of cool kid shit.

I hope you guys enjoy it. And I just saw on my Facebook account that it’s Dennis’ birthday today. Consider this a gift. Happy Birthday dude.

Follow me @legendsleague on Twitter and Instagram.
“You won’t be sorry for long.”

Respect,
- Bryan

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Sorry, What Are We Hustling For Again?

It’s 4:30am in Toronto and for about 100 reasons I should be asleep. But I’m not. By most social media measures I’m up “hustling”, “grinding” and “getting it in”. Because if I’m not out partying and posting pics of the popular forms of people pollution, I must be working. I mustn’t be relaxing, resting or watching television since that would mean I’m like a regular person with a regular job whose main concern isn’t getting rich off of their passions and crafts. Yes, I’m awake because of work. But don’t be fooled, I’m not awake because I love what I’m doing. At least not anymore.

I read something once about a rich man who decided he’d trade in his yacht and lavish living for a life of minimalism; a life where he would neither spend nor earn a dollar. By the end of the read, (which was longer than 140 characters) I genuinely felt as though this man was happy. He seemed to understand that his human calling was the pursuit of happiness rather than the pursuit of riches which would somehow transfer to the ability to purchase products that provided pleasure. And I couldn’t help but think of when I was 12, sitting in my dads van while he drove and being asked what I was going to do with myself. “I want to be a writer”, I told him. And I genuinely meant that. That, since I was 9 or 10 years old, was my dream – to write. “A writer? You won’t make any money being a writer”, he replied. At 12 I seemed to reflect in the same way the former yacht owner did as I answered my dad’s skepticism with, “I don’t care about getting paid. I don’t care if I live in a hut. As long as I can write and have enough money for a bowl of rice I’ll be happy”.

5 years later when I had my daughter my dad brought this story up to me and asked what my thoughts were about what I said. “I still feel the same”, I told him, “I’ll just need enough money for 2 bowls of rice now”. To this day my dad still brings up that conversation. And to this day I still struggle with what I’ve done with that dream of mine. It’s not the writing part that bothers me quite as much as me forgetting that at one point riches meant nothing to me and happiness was an internal projection rather than an exhibition to the public.

With the help of social media outlets like Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, I’ve been able to reach the eyes of people who support the work that I do and the story I have to tell. The support seems genuine and the affect of the substance behind the products I make an effort to provide feels positive. These platforms have also given me exposure to people I look up to greatly, who, thanks to my social anxiety, I may have never had the chance to meet or speak to, let alone do work for. My focus has always been on the “media” aspect of these “social” circles, considering the internet to be the virtual Times Square for these scalable billboards that cost me nothing but time and a bit of effort to market on. And thankfully, it’s worked. But with that opportunity comes the inability for me as someone who is steady on my business to completely shut it down when I’ve decided enough is enough. It’s not that I can’t. It’s that if I do, suddenly my business and in turn my means of living become disconnected from those who are paying for the show to go on. That, paired with this feeling that I’m suddenly not doing what I do because I love it anymore, I’m doing it because it’s what I’m somehow expected to do it and it may be my ticket to the “American (see: Canadian) Dream”, is the reason I crash between the idea of living for happiness or working for money.

I can’t deny the joy that’s come along with pursuing the other dream I had at 12 years old – to work for a clothing line. I’ve known since before I was a teenager that that’s what I wanted to do and I’ve worked very hard to get to the point where owning my own brand has become my main source of income. After my first solo art exhibit in 2011 I decided not to go back to working a comfortably paying job as a designer and art director in the ad industry in exchange for the lead role in my own “How To Make It In Canada” reality show. (Note: It’s not a real show. At least not yet). After 2 years of “hustling”, “grinding” and “getting it in”, the scales began tipping from doing what I love and getting paid a bit, to doing what I started to hate and getting paid a little bit more. And for the most part, gone went the joy. By most standards shared by my circle and those supporting my efforts I was somehow “living the life”. But I wasn’t and am still not happy. The efforts aren’t matched with the rewards. And the exhausting grind has yet to “pay off”.

So what’s the answer? Well, obviously when I’m successful enough I won’t have to grind in the same way I do now. I won’t have to be designing at 4:30am (now 5:00am), as I’ll have people around to do that for me. I won’t have to be worried about sacrificing my creative integrity to pay my rent because at the level of global success my circle of supporters tend to think I’m bound for I’ll own my home, my car, my dog and the park I walk him in. The answer is, “To get paid”. The answer is, “To make money”. The answer is, “To get rich”. And the question I pose to those Jeopardy answers is, “What did I care about the least when I was 12 and had a dream about what I wanted to do with myself?”.

Far too frequently I find myself trying to figure out how to make more and more money rather than thinking about how to make better art. I find myself talking about the cost of my ideas rather than the pay-off that comes with completing creative projects. I get clouded by the race to being rich rather than gaining clarity from the exhilaration of being expressive. This is not what I signed up for. And this is not the note I want to see myself sign off on.

I live in the biggest small city on the planet it seems; in a place where the buildings give us the delusion that we’re like New York and the women give us the delusion that we’re like L.A.. But outside of surface area, not the population nor the money to spend comes remotely close to either of those cities let alone the entire country just south of here. So it’s hard to get rich with your feet so planted and I keep saying to myself that success is just a “get the fuck out of Toronto” away. I guess only if the measure is money more than happiness and unfortunately my reality keeps weighing me on that scale.

One of my favourite lessons I’ve learned came from watching Winnie The Pooh with my daughter. A few of the characters got lost in The 100 Acre Woods trying to find home. When Pooh noticed they kept finding themselves back at the same sandpit, he said, “We have been looking for home, but we keep finding this sandpit. Maybe if we start looking for this sandpit, we will find our way home”. I don’t know that I want to do this anymore, this “trying to make it” thing. I’m not certain that working a life trying to get rich is more valuable to me than living a life trying to be happy. And it’s not a “mo’ money, mo’ problems” problem. It’s about who amuses the clown and who cures the doctor. It’s about finding out what you do to heal you. Evidently it’s what led to how MA$E “screwed up”, how Lauryn Hill went “nuts” and arguably why Dave Chappelle is happier than most comedians in the world. And I’m quite content with the thought, at least right now, half asleep while my workload piles, that I can leave this all alone against the better judgement of those who too are chasing a Western World Dream, in order to finally feel happy with life rather than thinking about how happy my life would be if I could just buy it all back.

Sometime ago there was something fanciful in our minds about “doing what we wanted” for a living. Whatever that was, we need to remind ourselves of it when responsibility to conform outweighs our instinctive response to create. Because great riches at the expense of sacrificed art is rarely better than sacrificing riches to be an expressly great artist. And if that means leaving everything you’ve “hustled” and “grinded” for in order to stop chasing the detour your responsibilities have created for you, then maybe it’s better that we get lost. Maybe it’s better that we search for the sandpit or live in a hut and leave the yacht at shore for someone who cares either a little bit more about money or a little bit less about dreams that mirror mine. Because a shepherd doesn’t get rest counting his sheep. And maybe that’s how we’ll find our way to some place that feels remotely like home and maybe then we can find better reason to sleep, or rest, or watch television like someone with a regular job and an extraordinary understanding of the meaning of their lives. When your pleasure is in the prize more than the process you’re doing for profession more than for passion. I think it’s time we earn the time to relax.

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A Room For Vulnerability

You can’t “sleep off” crazy. I don’t smoke weed, so I doze off three shots of Smirnoff daily. My dreams seem to trail off the tracks and I’m wired like spokes and I’m tired like maybe I could use a rail of coke. These days I rarely hear speech. I carry ’round a grudge like I hate bad cops. Put notes in a bottle that get soaked since no matter how hard I tip the glass to provoke that last drop, it won’t budge. And there goes the ink. And gone goes the good. And gone goes every want for me to do as I should. I’m haunted by the obsession over my needs versus the want for me to flaunt all the possessions of my greed and trying to get over what’s not understood. I’m a man on stilts. A plan meant for action can’t be designed off stills. A giant in a hole big enough, with a soul on a crutch won’t budge if he hasn’t got the will. And a taller man just needs a shorter rope. Clinging to the ledge and I’ll jump if friends think it’s a joke. Again with the notes. And then there’s the tears. And then another night spent stooping and I might just coup myself up inside my room with some beers. But in the end I just want my family and friends and my sanity, a Benz and my vanity to subside or to spread. Why can’t it be pretend? I wanna build a fort. I wanna jump the bed, I don’t wanna fuck for sport, but of course in the presence of other men that sorta makes me sound weird, but my dear, nothing I ever do is forced. Romancing a stone. Storming a rock. They keep telling me I’m soft, but it’s just to absorb the shock. My hearts on my sleeve. My arms in a sling. They’ll give you all you need but you’ll still want one thing and I’m not sure what that is anymore. My ceiling is your floor, I built walls and forgot room for a door.

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And This Is Not A Suicide Note

When everything feels like nothing. Feening for the needle just so I can bleed for something. Pain eating my stomach.. My brain eating my thinking. My name means the same thing in Spanish as what the father, son and holy other thing are supposed to make whole out of a man. I wrote something about umbrellas once, how I would under stand. If the rain ever came and things didn’t happen as planned. Like I took off and she flew and her plane could never land. Now I’m in Peter Pan mode and I’m leader to some lost boys. And we don’t wanna grow up. But that might mean that we may never grow. Cus we don’t wanna be just like our parents so apparently we stunt ourselves from acting like some adults. But we will never know. The reaper knows what we sow. And just for the record, this is not a suicide note. I’m hanging from a noose, thread or poorly tied rope. But never to a hope. Never to the knowing that I’m going towards a goal. Instead of to a wall. I’d lead myself to water only to find out that it ended in a cliff or water fall. And I’m not born a swimmer. Shoulders weighed this heavy mean that I am prone to sink. I grew up being raised by the shrinks and some teachers. Who balanced out my mental but it fucked with all my features. So I’m uglier than most. And funny cus I wanna hide what’s cutting at my throat. Just tryina stay afloat. Just tryina keep my head above the surface. And if you came to rescue me I’d miss the boat on purpose.. Service.

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On Selfishness

We’re not as good as we seem to think; finned like fish yet we wade like whales and are equipped to sink or get beached at the very least. Maybe impaled by our conceit in speech. As if never nervous we can curb our gods, call on Jesus and play our odds that He’ll have service in the place he chose to preach. But what the good word is – to turn our other cheek – is the salt that sucks the leech. It’s the wolf that plucks the sheep. And the herd is no longer a group that grazes, it’s a race to perch the finest peak. About ourselves is how we’re designed to speak. What changed in times, what swayed our minds and played our chords to such a tune that our dances were for strictly mirrors eyes or applause from a crowd of more fans than supportive peers? As if welcome chimes from swinging doors were just a tune to soothe our ears; to say, “For me, there is someone here”. Being not praised rather than being not loved is the fate we seem most to fear. I would rather be left alone, or be deaf to this wretched tone, than be anywhere close to here. For the present present and the self served cheer feels nothing like my wish for home. We are not great for those who wait on our beckon, hand and foot. We are blamers, namers of crude excuses to complicate what is simply put. And this must not be the end. For this quaint escape, now with acquaintance littered is where we were once dear and considered friends. We do not love we just oft pretend.