Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Just smell the flowers.

"It is more enjoyable to smell the magnolias and let them thrive than to posses them and watch them die."

Monday, January 24, 2011

‎"The life of a writer is lonely and vain no person can see that you're really just grammatically insane."


Frantic ballet

Kiss my fingertips, breathe my skin. Caress the palms of my hands; let's dance the movements of love again. Lock into my stare. Don't dare look away, its bitter outside but its warm in your embrace. Give me your nature in all of its entirety. If I beg you to stop, I'v lost my sanity. Be the everything that my mind believes you are, let go of foolish logic let's become what we are. Race me to the finish line. We are lions after prey. Wash away my persperation with your own, we are one this way. Taste the wanting of exctasy as we dance this frantic ballet. Now lay me down once again as you painstakingly pull away. Smile with those eyes. yes your masterpiece fully complete; He who greets with fire and ice never to much of either one. Now hold me tighter than before and trace the paintings of my skin. How addictive the feel of you. My personal artist and I your paper victim.

Friday, January 14, 2011

Amas eyes.

Her eyes, they stare like majestic stars glowing in the night. Striking and bright but they tire. Exhausted from years of wires changing and racing the electricity of time that flows through her mind. The memory of him is faint yet strong as her heart beats on she knows it is he who gave her the blood that made her strong. But Lord how am I strong from a man so gone he cant even look into my eyes. These eyes! The very ones he gave me before he turned away. That day. That day. So a machine. I am perfect and strong I carry on each day as if I never knew there was a thing wrong. So Take my hand and lead me away to a place where emotions are a choice and i wont have to hear the constant echo of his voice. No stop! please don’t. I wont feel for him, it cant be my fault I was an adolescent, a child, please let it stop. Let the wind take my breath and answer for him let the memory of him fade like sun shone in the morning. Be still and silent. Keep Calm and collected Don’t say a word. Then I wont hurt. Please don’t hurt. and maybe just maybe they wont notice my silent eyes and the way they cry. I cry. But only inside for the questions unanswered and a life unknown or what would have been if he had never known.

His passion.

His passion is trapped in a world of full of fast cars. Everyone elses seem so polished and new, talented and confident. unsatisfied his hazy vision reflects a car that barely moves and the scratches from his past ware deep into his 18 year old paint. Get it out! he screams don't feel these things! but words are not his gift. No his imagination is his escape. He looks at the sky and doesn't see clouds more like dancing whirl winds of painted feathery mist. He allows his mind to relax letting his mind leak out from the pen in his hand. It touches the paper like fire uniting with its long lost gasoline, and it goes and it goes. Round up and down over and out in and back. Jagged and angry and like that its relaxed. He thinks no thoughts that make sense to most as he bleeds his feelings like these emotions are his only hope. A hope at being normal and more like the rest maybe then they would see he is worth their time and not their protest. No mistakes he chants in his head for these very words are his personal bible and every direction the pen goes is exactly where it is supposed to be and when it begins that's is the only possible answer to where these thoughts have been. Every line and sway or flicker of ink, every smudge and swirl is exactly as his mind unknowingly intends the thought to end. and as the pen moves he is in his own universe seeing of black and blood red, sepia tones. fusia and far spaces, stars and flames. Clouds and evil. Eagles and shadows. Sleepless nights and lonely days, happiness living amongst pain. Thoughts so far out the great Dr. Sues could not began to describe. The desires he hides deep in his brain, letting only the pen breathe into the paper the secrets of his minds foreign thoughts, how they began and where they will end.

- For my creative brother.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

drowning in me

I am a being of impulse and addictive reactions. I want for to much of anything and my thirst is never sated. I was raised to give more and want less. But with a hunger like my own I cannot lay anyone desire to rest. Tempt me to like something and I dare to want it all. I cannot turn away from the things my mind calls. It is my battle in a war of its own. I want more oxygen than I am alloted and so my body will drown.