“You’re a psychopath”

First time I’ve heard that
But I never thought I’d
Hear it from you

Wish you didn’t hate me
Wish I could have said
‘Happy Birthday’ instead
Of being struck silent

By cynicism

“You’re a psychopath”
I will remember
The way we locked eyes
And the tone of your voice

Makes me hurt to think
That someone so stoic
Lash that at me

Nevermind the times
I was invited along
To go on long drives
And have days in the city

Because apparently
That was all worth
Just doing away with
Replaced by what?

I’ve earned the title
Of the damaged
Who are abnormal and

Who are anti-social
And who hurt willfully

Is so relative

So you might see why
It pains me so much
To hear it from someone
I care about so much

That is, if you even
Believe me

Because I am a psychopath

And I wonder
Who in the world
Would have ever
Told you that


Walking with a ghost
On my bones
Possessing my flesh
My melted iron will
Is a welcome shell

Regrowth in your body
Like moss
Retakes your psyche
Is what the ghost
Is telling me

Walking as a ghost
Towards paths found
Long ago by a fetch
Who lingered out of
Body then returning


Back to look behind
Where the grove once
Made a comfort in
Fortress-like branches
So long ago

Armor and blood iron
Litter my past on the
Ground, eroding, sinking
Being buried, turning
Into rock before my eyes


Too human in a savage rowld
Destined to never know
For sure how this all
Became or ever discover
Where it could lead

So I’m walking
Through an unfamiliar yard
Being whispered to
By the ghost
From the fortress

Facing down a path I know
Only by deja vu
I’ve got a melted will
To carry me where
Spirits have seen


Naked on the long road
Trees of a species unnamed
Block the spring rain
Like my home used to
Do before the ruins faded

Turning to face the grey
Unmarked on a map
A cartographer’s fever dream
To go exploring despite
Pain in your chest

As you breathe
Turning to look
As the seasons cycle
Seconds passing by

I’ve never been here
But it feels like we have
Coastlines look the same
To you
And your old grove

So protected until
I step out onto the grass
And curl my toes in soil
You know you’ve felt
This dirt before

Turning into a murder
Of birds sweeping low
Into murmurations
Of words once heard



Alter Egoes

The everyman is
Consumed by the need
To don a new

Think they can be
With a mask, a cape
And a new name

Think that a cause
Can be elevated
By having some titles
In groups they made

And with each conflict
Or obstacle, the
Effects of individuals
Become more residual

As a hero’s power
Wanes on its own
They form these leagues
To ‘better protect’ us

Making masks out of cardboard
And creating machines in
Their homes to help defend
The names of their cause

No purse-snatching thieves
Stalking the streets
Now we’re all weary of the
Self-proclaimed ways

Destroying and taking
All the live long day
While we all strive to
Make a better place

These crimes are in
The name of progress
We say we must resist
Those who set society

And yet they don’t fight
With their personalities
They fight as our groups
As our super hero leagues

Buildings burned by cocktails
We become more drunk by the
Meaning behind molotovs as
They scorch clashing ideologies

Freedom of speech
Means freedom to disagree
But it’s taken to mean
That others are enemy

Systems suffer ever more
By unchecked masks and
Their power to move
Entire cities to knees

They’ll never be pleased
No amount of money
Or support will justify
Them feeling injusticed

At the end of the day
Their masks are removed
And they walk among us
Like the average citizen

But they still need to ‘win’
Be more than unsatisfied
With the things their
Actions desperately justify

In a world increasingly
Neglecting what’s personal
To feel unique they only
Show their alter egoes

Words Over Inches

Distance makes and breaks a lot of things
It chains our reach and clouds our heads
For there was that Bellingham girl
Waiting for me it seemed no matter what

We exchanged letters of love
Across distance
Where messages lost in translation
Delievered mixed messages

Distorted words to a person unnerved
Every day one received and one sent
To a girl I thought was beautiful
But the words were wind-whipped

They had to walk a hundred miles
And by the end the words were tired
Distance makes and breaks a lot of things
And it broke the words that made us

If only I could have held you every night
Maybe things would be different
And words over inches would mean more
Than the ones who’s feet were always sore

Restraining energy to make the voyage
They were never meant to be hitchhikers
But they did anyways with head held high
And I thought I was savoring this life

Words over inches
Wax sealed with a red fleur de lis
Was always
What was better

Helicopter Crash – Journal 7/6/17

Every fucking action movie that features any kind of god damn helicopter (except for the first Matrix movie) sees the chopper get taken the fuck down. This is a problem.

In my last journal I discussed how I didn’t understand how to transition scenes when I was 8 years old, so I would knock the protagonist unconscious and have them wake up in a different scene. That was how I did transitions. CGI for helicopters must be so damn cheap, every fucking action film with them in it makes them blow up excellently somehow.

I am currently watching the latest iteration of King Kong, where as soon as there’e a convoy of choppers tearing ass over Skull Island playing Black Sabbath over loudspeakers, I know that these sorry sons of bitches are gonna go down in flames. Spoiler alert, by the way. But also you should be able to see that coming, because damn.

I also realized that I somehow hadn’t purchased Thunderstruck nor Paranoia on iTunes yet. This movie made me remedy that. Thanks, Kong!

My house in Skyrim is coming along quite well, thanks for asking.

This journal’s excerpt is from a poem I’m gonna end up calling “Amoral”:

“I can be a bad guy
They can be the good ones

Ramming our gates
We’re under siege
Climbing the stone
Their destiny

And ours is one
That puts an end to them”

This poem is supposed to be set during a siege of a town, something middle ages I think. I’m writing a helluva lot about knights and hand to hand combat. Thank you, Skyrim. I’ve also written a poem this afternoon called “House Of Wolves” that I am really proud of. I’m not writing as much as I was last month, but I’m back to writing maybe one a day. Difference is, it’s much denser now, the stuff I’m writing. The things I wrote tens of stanzas of a year ago are being condensed more and more.

House Of Wolves is a pretty damn dense poem. We’ll be seeing that here on Radio Reality City soon.

One thing that’s much easier to capture in stories and interactive narratives is atmosphere. Words by themselves don’t have much atmosphere. Well, not the pinpoint atmosphere that you could get at in a whole paragraph of exposition. Few words sound exactly as they’d appear.

Take this one for instance: sanguine. Isn’t that a weird fucking word? I only ever hear that in reference to extremely into it vampire fetishists. Blood is supposed to be sanguine, but it’s also supposed to be an “optimistic outlook in an especially bad situation”. I don’t know why the fuck vampires like that so much, nor how that came to mean blood.

Here’s another: ethereal. Doesn’t that just sound like something mystic as hell? It’s badass! I try to use that one often, when I can. Words like that and verisimilitude are really fun to pepper in when I can. Though I don’t do it often, it can be incredibly satisfying to find a syllable count that works with something with a specific definition.

One such phrase I used a while back was “call of the void”, which is the feeling you get when you want to jump over the edge of a cliff. Look it up, it’s quite fascinating.

My dad used to be a writer. I say used to because he hasn’t written since we moved to Washington. But lately I’m trying to get him to get those creative juices flowing again by giving him my old notebooks. Wouldn’t you find it odd to read things your son wrote if he wrote like me? I sure would be, that is, if I wanted children. Which I don’t. At all.

What ever happened to Skrillex, by the way? Is he even still making music? Ah, whatever. I’m not listening to Bangarang, I’m listening to John Wick Mode by Le Castle Vania!

Alright, you guys, that’s my lot this time around, hope you enjoyed! If anyone has any ideas on features or anything, please let me know. I’d be interested in any suggestions!

This is Jake Thomas Shaw from Radio Reality City, and I hope you have a lovely week!

Dark Synthony

Thoughts and words
Worth much more
Than the day

Endless reverie
While you
Phrases for me

Dark synthony
You rave and play

Like lullabies
You harmonize

Like fireflies
At 2a.m.
These melodies
You synthesize

Thoughts and words
Bid adore
Butterfly sparks
By books grimoire

Worth much more
Than the day

To the Artist Across the Table

I can see you sketching all
Kinds of things there

Stuff that I can’t do as well
Unless it’s with words

But the cities you can make
Are even more tangible

And now another piece of paper
Has been taken out and you

Could be

Drawing me
But that might be so egotistical

To think that any of your art
Was meant for me

It could also be too awkward to tell

That you’re making art about them

Even if the inspiration
Is so minuscule


It does the same thing
With practice you get better

And to gift, it feels strange

Though I wonder

What the fuck my words could mean
To you

Even if you never read this

Monday, October 26th, 2015


Monday, October 26th, 2015

Monday, October 26th, 2015, 11:17:20 PM: “I’m flattered.”

Wednesday, October 28th, 2015, 12:21:04 AM: “It would be an ideal escape for me.”

Wednesday, October 28th, 2015, 7:31:45 AM: “Good morning.”

Thursday, October 29th, 2015, 8:16:09 PM: “No way! You’re so sweet!”

Sunday, November 1st, 2015, 11:15:24 PM: “It was breathtakingly beautiful.”

Sunday, November 1st, 2015, 11:15:39 PM: “It was a masterpiece.”

Sunday, November 1st, 2015, 11:15:47 PM: “Your time was orchestrated beautifully.”

Monday, November 9th, 2015, 10:45:25 PM: “I cried tears of joy, dear.”

Thursday, November 12th, 2015, 11:33:38 PM: “It made my heart skip. It is gorgeous.”

Friday, November 13th, 2015, 12:01:52 AM: “You of little faith. You sir, are worthy.”

Saturday, November 14th, 2015, 8:15:05 AM: “I’m yours. I can’t wait for what the future holds.”

Saturday, November 14th, 2015: 8:18:29 AM: “Your heart was beating so fast afterwards.”

Saturday, November 14th, 2015, 5:56:49 PM: “Thinking of you helps.”

Sunday, November 15th, 2015, 11:30:47 PM: “You are the right choice. You’re amazing.”

Sunday, November 15th, 2015, 11:37:17 PM: “I need you.”

Monday, November 16th, 2015, 9:51:11 PM: “You’re my wings and my heart.”

Thursday, November 19th, 2015, 11:16:38 PM: “You could have had anybody. I feel so lucky you picked me.”

Friday, November 20th, 2015, 11:27:43 PM: “The only words left are I love you.”

Friday, November 20th, 2015, 11:27:55 PM: “I want to make you a part of my future. You have no idea.”

Monday, November 30th, 2015, 11:43:31 PM: “You are perfect. I fell for you day 1.”

Wednesday, December 23rd, 2015, 10:54:49 PM: “:3”

Saturday, January 3rd, 2016, 4:36:15 PM: “I love you very much.”

Tuesday, January 5th, 2016, 9:46:12 PM: “I can’t thank you enough for letting me into your world.”

Tuesday, January 12th, 2016, 8:59:02 PM: “God, you make my mind race.”

Thursday, January 14th, 2016, 10:17:58 PM: “That’s more to me than what I can explain.”

Monday, February 22nd, 2016, 3:18:22 AM: “We need to talk.”



Try again.
Threaten me.

You think you’ve got
More guts than me?

How many teeth do you
Think you need?

I could check if what
Insults you’ve prepared
Are backed by your
Weak spine.

I’ve seen your kind
And I’ve got more
Bite than all of you.

Step back,
Stand down,
Or back off.
Ideally all,
In either order.

Because this
Won’t end very well
For you.

When it comes down
To it, I’m certain
You have no
Lever like I do.

No switch to throw
To change the tide,
No apathy for you
To hide

Any longer when red vision
Tunneling takes over.

I grow numb

To cuts or wounds
Or broken bones,

And no blood shot
Will stop me from
Showing you
That insulting me
Was not the smartest
Thing to do.

To rend in my haste
Is to objectify you.


Like punching a wall
That can feel

Cracking away the beams
And drywall
In satisfaction
To see destruction

In contempt
For the asbestos dust
That burrows
Underneath my fingernails
And coats my skin.