rain

In which state of mind
does the enemy awaken
the cold possibility of
grey horizons
and stormy skies,
it is a sate of dream
where,
love is drowned by
clouds asunder
yet not commenced

I once feared,
but fear was slain
by the consistency of matter,
the rigid, the soft
the cold, the warm
touching not slightly
but so forcefully, it
opens reality

I once feared,
yet I did love
I loved and I realized
the clouds were symbols,
representing
a sky soon clear
the rain was a symbol, it
represented a drought
soon killed

now ,
I see reality.
I see clouds,
torment, and yet
the punctuality
of  love.

part of the intro to my story

There is a land where no one fights. There is a land where no one kills, or disputes, where there is only one supremacy: A book, bound in a velvet form, and printed on the pulp of a cotton plant. In there is the facts of this strange new word, the rules, and the basic information which each inhabitant is taught to understand. There are no police with guns and clubs to guard and enforce them, no jails to cage those who do not comply.  For why would that occur, in a place where all is peaceful, all is grand, and all is already controlled by the art of ignorance? This is the land of the almost people, and this is their story.

a life

you've learned of the daemons, the ones who's senseless rapture in what is unimportant leads them farther away from love, and all that they never dare look upon. here are the angels. the ones which love itself defines them, where among that tattered apartment they create a home. their external gifts are close to none, but inside, inside themselves is a masterpiece. substances mixed with love and compassion begin to adorn the child's growing mess. they bejewel holes in the walls and doors with safety, security, and hope. this is why the child lives, for these beings. they are all that she is and the only thing she dare not avoid. these angels are her soul now, as her childhood once owned it long before. together, they begin to build a life independent of the darkness that is slowly leaving the child.

bland

a fictional story

most unmercifully do I tell you that this post will not be even on the brink of poetic. today i tell you a story in a much more crude and upfront, if not descriptive, way.  I'll tell it it you. I begin with a battered, tormented apartment suite on the twenty-seventh floor, on top of a well reputed consignment shop. there's many a described  stories in the tattered walls, the holes in a child's door, the stench from the bathroom mildew. the place cries out "I'm scared. leave me. I don't care anymore." and all you think of is the pain surrounding you, its infectious. i'll also tell you of the demons of this child's life. they are those who see only what they don't have to feel, they see the sky, but they do not feel. they see the moon, but they do not feel. they see the silhouette of a child, and shrinking into a blank world, they do not feel. the child is left to feel, and twice the burden is laid down upon her mind. she feels for those who will take the risk, but no demon stirs in its path. maybe i'll tell you a little more about this child tomorrow. maybe rather the happy aspects of her life, or maybe i'll dwell on the negative a day longer, as life seems to enjoy the same.

This may be dull

This is me.
I am unavailable
Entirely capable yet
Erratically unreceptive 
I watch
While body
Never meets soul
They are body with a strength
And yet I strive to be soul
With strength and weakness
I partake in a barrier of correct,
Formality,
And seclusion.
It is lonesome
Insufficient
Yet honorable
So, might I ask,
What balances the icy hot extremes
Of revolutionary desire
To the bland pangs of
Rigid normality?
What if the answer is fear?

what do you see?

vintage lined with sweet antiquity, ironically cleaned until rust gleams and cracks shine, a glass lens with a body of plastic and metal clad stares slightly to the right, remembering

tick tock

the door bell dinged as my feet lead me to the old man nestled between walls of watches all ticking to the rhythm of my racing heart, except for the one in my hand. The rough, warn one with a cool cold buckle  I clasped between my fingers for comfort. The kids said he was an old warlock. they said he would snatch you up when you were sleeping and turn you into to something dreadful if you didn't pay him on time. I trusted the fine yet sturdy wall of glass between us, and inched my  feet towards a wrinkled, warn, old man. I loosened my grip on that cool calm buckle and presented it to him. "can you fix it?" I asked. He cleared his throat with the grimmest expression. then, ever so slowly, he lifted his plateau of wrinkles and sunspots and smiled.  "Why yes! I'll do it for free. tell your father hello for me, will you? take a candy now." My body stopped shaking, I loosened my grip on the counter edge, and just as slowly, I took a the candy from his withered hand and smiled.

nature's personality

there is yet another leaf which floats along a dwindling path, sailing with the breeze ruffling   its edges.

a tad bit dark.... but hey.

I walk a wandering walk,

clothed in my regrets

the ground consists of misery

the sky of loss

injustice pangs me to a withering limp

my eyes shut closed

I see

well i see myself
the world hidden in pain
my nose breathing out
polluting the air with my thoughts
and when I breathe in,
well I breathe in my own retrospect
it consists of a ragged soul
who lost its way among the cold
and the hot
searching for the balance
for I am the epiphany of nothing
I was once cold,
then I grew so hot
I was blanched of my feeling.
so now I wander.
the tumult of lava licks at my skin
I feel nothing
but what is already reality
the pierce of the ice knocks on my bones
I feel nothing
but what is already there
as it is.
and is.
until a scream,
why?
and I am answered by the comfort of
the soft of pain.
until a nurses hand
Bloodied
grabs me by my hair
and I see light.

part of an entry, July 22, 2011

I spent a wonderful day in the gardens with the sun just skimming along my face, perfectly deluded by a slight breeze. the classic smell of mowed grass in combination with every native plant conceivable beautifully masked the smell caused by the slight humming traffic far from sight: the only sign of human life apart from the perfect curve of a rose bush, and me, in the middle of this, with the grass tickling my feet  and the wind my nose and the road my ears gave me shear momentary bliss for the larger part of a minute.

when a bieng hears music

what would you think 

if the sweetest of tunes 

met your wondering ears

when the darkest of visions 

meet your bedraggled eyes

well the unfair may kill

but for the wandering mind

what would those eyes behold

if only a glimpse were viewed 

a glimpse of that of the human essence

that which makes imperfection perfect

why, they see the physical song

they would see what the eyes should see

all conjoined to create the concept of dance

that silvery thing which sheds light

on the sound in your ears 

and beauty of the eyes

part of an entry, July 31st, 2011

The sun is shining, and all those immune to such blazing heat which comes with it are celebrating out in the open air, their skin almost touching the rays of the boiling sun, and all they feel is delight while me and the rest of the heat hating clan are wretchedly  sweltering in the unproductive, slight shelter of our homes, where that small amount  of heat is avoided, disappearing through the panes of our windows, and the thick of our walls. We are the refugees of the summer.

a poem written on the 7th of august

Rolling

In which direction does it stand
When descending imagery spin against me
Floating time
In a whirlwind of loss
Against me
When before my ears
They hear a crash
Such a life,
With hopeless cries.
To be freed!
Well why then,
In such a stage,
Does light float for my dwindling soul
Coming fourth to lay guilt upon that golden cloud
Where does it stand
When before me the sun shines black
And the night glistens in a picturesque bliss
Where does it stand
When night comes from the soul
And day from the hatred
Confusion strikes a deathly blow
And every day is a wandering day
When beings fallow the light and shining suffered cloud
Rolling through the misty relief
And the sun is lost in racing thoughts
And freedom gives it's last blissful touch