I am a serial murderer of peanut butter.
Saturday, July 20, 2013
Peanut Butter
@MatthewEBennett: #ThoughtOfTheDay A new jar of peanutbutter is so perfect that I feel bad everytime I open one
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Bible
@MatthewEBennett: "I grew up in that reading the bible kind of thing"-anonymous #whiskeywords #Bible #College 
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Thought of the Day: 7/16/13
@MatthewEBennett: I think that you can find out more about a person if you converse with them in a public bathroom #ThoughtOfTheDay #whiskeywords
Friday, February 22, 2013
Break
The lifted breeze and
The pall that casts itself over
the dead leaves.
Smoke emanating from a lit cigarette
How careless it wisps
A shout from inside a building
Somewhere
So full of itself, so sure
As if it was demanding to be heard
Over the fall air, which has a sound all it's own
The concrete columns with gum stuck to their sides beg clouds to wash them clean
To make them new again
Or destroy them
Another shout from inside
This one louder
This one fuller
The cigarette falls in the cracked ashtray
And waxes nostalgic with its peers.
Coming.
The pall that casts itself over
the dead leaves.
Smoke emanating from a lit cigarette
How careless it wisps
A shout from inside a building
Somewhere
So full of itself, so sure
As if it was demanding to be heard
Over the fall air, which has a sound all it's own
The concrete columns with gum stuck to their sides beg clouds to wash them clean
To make them new again
Or destroy them
Another shout from inside
This one louder
This one fuller
The cigarette falls in the cracked ashtray
And waxes nostalgic with its peers.
Coming.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Camp
Why am I here? What did I do wrong? I don't know anyone here, don't leave me here!The heat of the sun is bearing down on me.
The
churning
of
your
engine
is
fading
as
you
leave
me
here
to
die.
I
can't
believe
this
is
the
place
I
will
die. Guards on duty watch us as we kick and scream. Their dark glasses obscure their eyes. Do they see
me?
Colors.
Intrinsic.
Definite.
My
life
here
is
indefinite.
Indefinite structures. I could watch them for hours - building castles out of sand.Laughing like princes...
Explosions
of
sound.
I
wipe
the
crusted
mud
from
my
pants.
My
body
aches.
My
muscles
yearn
for
food.
When do we get fed? I didn't pack a lunch. I wonder where you are...do you enjoy our time apart?
They
come
and
take
them
one
by
one.
I
watch
them
leave
me.
Frankie, Ellie, Joey, and Eddie. Christian, Harry, Annie. They're all gone.When is it my turn? How long will it take?
Or,
are
you
never
coming
back?
I
don't
know
which
would
be
worse.
I close my eyes as the light hits my face. I wonder if I can just melt away, just disappear into the sun.
Why
did
you
leave
me
here?
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Diary Of ________.
Dec. 17th, 2007
I can see it in your eyes…that’s what the always say right? They say they can see pain or anger or sadness in your eyes. I didn’t understand this saying…just like I don’t understand most sayings but this one stuck with me because it became realized for me…I met a young mentally challenged girl today at the mall. She introduced herself as Amanda and that she was very pleased to meet me. I told her my name and we chatted about how crowded the mall was. Her mother then apologized to me and said that she can talk my ears off for hours and pulled her away. In a fleeting last look I saw what was true sadness in her eyes. I saw longing, torture. She was fully aware at that moment who she was, who I was, what everything was and all she wanted was to be normal and to have a normal conversation and it was taken from her, just like everything else.
I can see it in your eyes…that’s what the always say right? They say they can see pain or anger or sadness in your eyes. I didn’t understand this saying…just like I don’t understand most sayings but this one stuck with me because it became realized for me…I met a young mentally challenged girl today at the mall. She introduced herself as Amanda and that she was very pleased to meet me. I told her my name and we chatted about how crowded the mall was. Her mother then apologized to me and said that she can talk my ears off for hours and pulled her away. In a fleeting last look I saw what was true sadness in her eyes. I saw longing, torture. She was fully aware at that moment who she was, who I was, what everything was and all she wanted was to be normal and to have a normal conversation and it was taken from her, just like everything else.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
False Accounts on a Tuesday Night
Oh, and tell me how
you are going to find
the treason in my eyes, again?
Stare as you will,
until our pupils dilate in the dark.
You will not see what you came here for --
--My blood.
No flicker or flash of a lie here.
No hidden meaning in my prose.
Only me.
So stare, shoot darting looks from the love-seat.
Sit on your throne.
Stab at me with tear soaked eyes
and running mascara.
Turn your skin bright red,
burst your blood vessels.
Use all of your tricks,
for I have one of my own;
I don't care.
you are going to find
the treason in my eyes, again?
Stare as you will,
until our pupils dilate in the dark.
You will not see what you came here for --
--My blood.
No flicker or flash of a lie here.
No hidden meaning in my prose.
Only me.
So stare, shoot darting looks from the love-seat.
Sit on your throne.
Stab at me with tear soaked eyes
and running mascara.
Turn your skin bright red,
burst your blood vessels.
Use all of your tricks,
for I have one of my own;
I don't care.
A World Reversed
The tree limbs creak with the wind as the rain pours upon the grass,
who's blades cut through the dirt to point straight up like soldiers.
The tulips in the garden, yellow and purple, strangled by weeds overgrown.
I can feel them.
Their jealous veins pulsating under the soil.
They lash out at one another for space and nutrients.
Each hoping for a better grip to the ground,
afraid that one day they will fall into the sky.
who's blades cut through the dirt to point straight up like soldiers.
The tulips in the garden, yellow and purple, strangled by weeds overgrown.
I can feel them.
Their jealous veins pulsating under the soil.
They lash out at one another for space and nutrients.
Each hoping for a better grip to the ground,
afraid that one day they will fall into the sky.
Rough
dirt covered hands
black as tar
digging under rock
the stiff drink
the dry cough
a hot water bottle
cigarettes
a bird sounds
five a.m.
sunlight cuts through
broken window blinds
begin again
through pain
end again
black as tar
digging under rock
the stiff drink
the dry cough
a hot water bottle
cigarettes
a bird sounds
five a.m.
sunlight cuts through
broken window blinds
begin again
through pain
end again
____________
You came home carrying a stack of papers, each one blank.
We took an hour and spread them out all over the house; behind cupboards, in shelves, clung to doorknobs, and on the sills of windows.
We put them on the furniture, in the shower, on the coffeepot, and on our favorite books.
I stuck one on the dog, you put one on the bed.
At last, we put one on each other.
Then we set out to write on each piece of paper the word that best describes that spot.
On the windowsill I wrote "sunrise", you wrote "sunset."
On the bookshelf I wrote "knowledge", you wrote "entertainment."
The shower was "clean" for me, and "dirty" for you.
The coffeepot was "energy" for me, "addiction" for you.
On the dog you wrote "mine", I wrote "yours."
On the bed you wrote "mine", I wrote "yours."
On you I wrote "goodbye."
You left mine blank.
As the door closed behind me I wrote "home" on it right underneath your writing - "house."
We took an hour and spread them out all over the house; behind cupboards, in shelves, clung to doorknobs, and on the sills of windows.
We put them on the furniture, in the shower, on the coffeepot, and on our favorite books.
I stuck one on the dog, you put one on the bed.
At last, we put one on each other.
Then we set out to write on each piece of paper the word that best describes that spot.
On the windowsill I wrote "sunrise", you wrote "sunset."
On the bookshelf I wrote "knowledge", you wrote "entertainment."
The shower was "clean" for me, and "dirty" for you.
The coffeepot was "energy" for me, "addiction" for you.
On the dog you wrote "mine", I wrote "yours."
On the bed you wrote "mine", I wrote "yours."
On you I wrote "goodbye."
You left mine blank.
As the door closed behind me I wrote "home" on it right underneath your writing - "house."
August
Crouched down beneath
A hummingbird's fluttering wings
Sizzle in heat
A sun torn apart
Its shards are falling down upon us
Cutting clouds in two
Making monsters in shadow
Our parents wouldn't recognize us
Mom, you wouldn't recognize me
Skin covered in a wet film
Droplets moving from brow to chin
All the oxygen gone
Even blood sweats
We laid on the grass
Conforming to our shapes
When the sun lights us ablaze
You won't recognize me anymore
Dad, you won't recognize me
A hummingbird's fluttering wings
Sizzle in heat
A sun torn apart
Its shards are falling down upon us
Cutting clouds in two
Making monsters in shadow
Our parents wouldn't recognize us
Mom, you wouldn't recognize me
Skin covered in a wet film
Droplets moving from brow to chin
All the oxygen gone
Even blood sweats
We laid on the grass
Conforming to our shapes
When the sun lights us ablaze
You won't recognize me anymore
Dad, you won't recognize me
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
A Lonely Night in Halifax
The wet sidewalk met my sneakers with a smack,
as the air brushed my skin in a lazy,
drifting sort of fashion;
as if it too were giving up on the day due to rain.
I took my time strolling down Dobbs Street,
questioning whether there is life outside of Halifax.
It sometimes feels as though you are the last man on earth
when the overcast darkens and the city goes silent.
I pondered what I would do if this feeling were fact
as I passed the Montfort building on King Street toward the cemetary.
Tonight would be ideal for a ghost to appear,
or perhaps I am a ghost.
as the air brushed my skin in a lazy,
drifting sort of fashion;
as if it too were giving up on the day due to rain.
I took my time strolling down Dobbs Street,
questioning whether there is life outside of Halifax.
It sometimes feels as though you are the last man on earth
when the overcast darkens and the city goes silent.
I pondered what I would do if this feeling were fact
as I passed the Montfort building on King Street toward the cemetary.
Tonight would be ideal for a ghost to appear,
or perhaps I am a ghost.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Garden
There was a man who cared for nothing but his garden
A man who never married and was never truly loved
That is not to say he wasn't ever in love himself
These feelings were never mutual
And over time feelings dissolve into nothing
The man's garden was his sanctuary
A massive stretch of his land was devoted to it
Bordering on obcenity
He spent days planting and watering
He would scout the temperatures and buy flowers for each season
The winter was his least favorite time of the year
He would pick his favorite flower and bring it inside
Plot it at the window so it could see sunlight and he could see it
In the spring he would overhaul the garden and start fresh
At night, and on occasion, he could be seen whispering to his plants in the darkness
Urging them to grow; Urging them to whisper back
His garden sustained him in every way
From it he would grow strawberries, pumpkins, carrots
He even, to his own suprise, had the bigginings of an apple tree
But the tiny tree that was growing had massive roots
They strangled his other plants and flowers when he was not around
During a particularly busy week at work he came back to his garden
Only to find a thriving tree and several dead plants
In a rage he uprooted the leviathan and threw it in the woods
He never again let something destroy his garden
No one was allowed there either; it was his
And as he grew older, creakier, he realized that the garden would die without his touch
He tried, in pain, to maintain it
But it was unbearable suffering and the work load immense
And when the men came to move his things
Before leaving for his new home
He refused to make eye contact with the garden
Now he sits, or paces by the windows in slippers
Sometimes muttering, sometimes in a stiff ponder
The only thing that ever loved him was gone
But every now and then
When the light would hit the trees across the street just right
And he could hear the whisper in the breeze through the open window
He would crack a solemn smile
Close his eyes
And remember a time when there was a garden.
A man who never married and was never truly loved
That is not to say he wasn't ever in love himself
These feelings were never mutual
And over time feelings dissolve into nothing
The man's garden was his sanctuary
A massive stretch of his land was devoted to it
Bordering on obcenity
He spent days planting and watering
He would scout the temperatures and buy flowers for each season
The winter was his least favorite time of the year
He would pick his favorite flower and bring it inside
Plot it at the window so it could see sunlight and he could see it
In the spring he would overhaul the garden and start fresh
At night, and on occasion, he could be seen whispering to his plants in the darkness
Urging them to grow; Urging them to whisper back
His garden sustained him in every way
From it he would grow strawberries, pumpkins, carrots
He even, to his own suprise, had the bigginings of an apple tree
But the tiny tree that was growing had massive roots
They strangled his other plants and flowers when he was not around
During a particularly busy week at work he came back to his garden
Only to find a thriving tree and several dead plants
In a rage he uprooted the leviathan and threw it in the woods
He never again let something destroy his garden
No one was allowed there either; it was his
And as he grew older, creakier, he realized that the garden would die without his touch
He tried, in pain, to maintain it
But it was unbearable suffering and the work load immense
And when the men came to move his things
Before leaving for his new home
He refused to make eye contact with the garden
Now he sits, or paces by the windows in slippers
Sometimes muttering, sometimes in a stiff ponder
The only thing that ever loved him was gone
But every now and then
When the light would hit the trees across the street just right
And he could hear the whisper in the breeze through the open window
He would crack a solemn smile
Close his eyes
And remember a time when there was a garden.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Echo
A hollow cough.
A shiver under cotton sheets.
A whisper through the telephone.
A shudder down the spine.
Mason jars, traced with dust,
stand on shelves by windows
painted shut.
Mirrors cracked or chipped with imperfection.
Canopied lights on the patio.
A swinging chair.
A cup of coffee.
Magazines, yellowed and dog-eared,
scattered by the bathroom door.
The rythym of chirp and chatter.
The clunking of engines.
The chime of church bells.
A tune from the wooden floor.
A melody from brass, drums, winds.
An orchestra of untouched strings.
A shiver under cotton sheets.
A whisper through the telephone.
A shudder down the spine.
Mason jars, traced with dust,
stand on shelves by windows
painted shut.
Mirrors cracked or chipped with imperfection.
Canopied lights on the patio.
A swinging chair.
A cup of coffee.
Magazines, yellowed and dog-eared,
scattered by the bathroom door.
The rythym of chirp and chatter.
The clunking of engines.
The chime of church bells.
A tune from the wooden floor.
A melody from brass, drums, winds.
An orchestra of untouched strings.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Stranded
and there the water
blue and green
white with foam
spreads over land.
crushing it.
erasing it.
the lapping waves etch along the line
and at the center
me.
blue and green
white with foam
spreads over land.
crushing it.
erasing it.
the lapping waves etch along the line
and at the center
me.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Wolf
The terrible cold chills
--my love for the outside
diminishes...
but only for a short time.
My insides -
intestines
heart
bile
yearn to be barefoot.
Resisting what is believed
to be.
My teeth chatter but wish to
feel the first kill of the day--
The scent of another calls me away
calls me toward a different place.
A place built with appliances
and man-made hazard.
The snow on my skin burns
but the concrete I'm standing on burns hotter.
--my love for the outside
diminishes...
but only for a short time.
My insides -
intestines
heart
bile
yearn to be barefoot.
Resisting what is believed
to be.
My teeth chatter but wish to
feel the first kill of the day--
The scent of another calls me away
calls me toward a different place.
A place built with appliances
and man-made hazard.
The snow on my skin burns
but the concrete I'm standing on burns hotter.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Eyes
Everyday I see her. She smiles and says "hello" while casually averting her eyes downward, avoiding any real sense of contact. I love her.
I don't love her in the sense that I would marry her or that I want to be with her. In fact, conversely, I love her for not caring about me. I would easily do anything to just kiss her once and yet, at the same time, that would kill my love for her. It is not about having something or someone that you can't have and "be careful what you wish for." It's about expectations. It's about tragically being in love with someone who will never know it.
There is the chance of course that she feels the same way for me. Someday, maybe we'll get together. But it will end, as most things do.
When I do make eye contact with her, or anyone for that matter, I can only see how our relationship will end. Whether it be a stranger, a friend, a lover, or a family member, I can only see the reasons why I should not get close to them. I care for these people so much that it tears me apart to see how our knowledge of each other will end. I steer away from being close and lose my love. I gain hope. Hope that someone can break that barrier. Hope that someone will force their way into my life to make me care and make me love.
I hope that when I see her eyes, I see our lives ending together... I hope one day she looks at me.
I don't love her in the sense that I would marry her or that I want to be with her. In fact, conversely, I love her for not caring about me. I would easily do anything to just kiss her once and yet, at the same time, that would kill my love for her. It is not about having something or someone that you can't have and "be careful what you wish for." It's about expectations. It's about tragically being in love with someone who will never know it.
There is the chance of course that she feels the same way for me. Someday, maybe we'll get together. But it will end, as most things do.
When I do make eye contact with her, or anyone for that matter, I can only see how our relationship will end. Whether it be a stranger, a friend, a lover, or a family member, I can only see the reasons why I should not get close to them. I care for these people so much that it tears me apart to see how our knowledge of each other will end. I steer away from being close and lose my love. I gain hope. Hope that someone can break that barrier. Hope that someone will force their way into my life to make me care and make me love.
I hope that when I see her eyes, I see our lives ending together... I hope one day she looks at me.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Smile
Why is it that I constantly feel like a let down; as if everyone in my life was expecting something from me that I can't give them? I find it strange to feel this way because my entire life I have worked so hard to be unselfish and fulfill others' needs before my own. I have always been the one to make fun of myself for a laugh and let others do the same to me without taking any of the ridicule to heart. I always recognize when people are having an off day and I try and make them feel better. At work I bottle up my emotion because I know that it is not a customer's fault that I'm having a bad day and I don't like to take out my anger on employees.I'd rather spread happiness over annoyance. I gave so much of myself in my relationships with others to the point where I feel that maybe I don't have much more to give.
Is that the case? Have I simply shared so much of myself and tried so hard to be exactly what someone needs that I just have nothing left to give? Maybe I have become selfish of my time and my feelings. I just wish I could shake that feeling that nothing I could do would ever be good enough. I wish I could stop letting everyone down and just give them what they need. I just don't think I know what they need. I don't think I know what I need.
I just want to see a smile every now and then.
Is that the case? Have I simply shared so much of myself and tried so hard to be exactly what someone needs that I just have nothing left to give? Maybe I have become selfish of my time and my feelings. I just wish I could shake that feeling that nothing I could do would ever be good enough. I wish I could stop letting everyone down and just give them what they need. I just don't think I know what they need. I don't think I know what I need.
I just want to see a smile every now and then.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Shared
Everyone in this room will die. Not right now. Probably not tomorrow. Probably, tomorrow, everyone will be back in this room. But all of us will die.
That's probably the only thing we have in common. Or maybe not. Maybe we all love pizza, or something stranger. We have all seen the same episode of Three's Company. We have all loved someone or something. We have all cried. We were babies once.
But I share nothing with these people, or rather, they share nothing with me.
Except that they are in this room.
And we are alive.
That's probably the only thing we have in common. Or maybe not. Maybe we all love pizza, or something stranger. We have all seen the same episode of Three's Company. We have all loved someone or something. We have all cried. We were babies once.
But I share nothing with these people, or rather, they share nothing with me.
Except that they are in this room.
And we are alive.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Pavement
I scuff my sneakers as I pass them
stumbling past like a sputtering car
I listen as they sputter words
words of repitition, decrepit and crumbling
crumbling like the sound on a broken record
a broken promise, a trust misplaced
misplaced keys to a deserted house
a deserted friendship
I have no friends, I have the night instead
the night which is filled with character and emptiness
I am a character witness to the murder of one
the one who sits on pavement in the night waiting.
stumbling past like a sputtering car
I listen as they sputter words
words of repitition, decrepit and crumbling
crumbling like the sound on a broken record
a broken promise, a trust misplaced
misplaced keys to a deserted house
a deserted friendship
I have no friends, I have the night instead
the night which is filled with character and emptiness
I am a character witness to the murder of one
the one who sits on pavement in the night waiting.
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