the present

dancing is my life. not to be too melodramatic, but dancing, is indeed the air I breathe. it is in fact what I once thought was my future, but now in fact is my past. I gain my oxygen from watching others pass me by, then I might glimpse a bit of the ideal reality. this is my present and future, not my fate. future can be changed to the ideal, where as fate cannot.

A short note on the validity of a movie

Movie credit songs are corny. But if you don't listen to them, the movie wasn't worth watching. I don't care if I laughed, or smiled, if I didn't listen to the credit songs, it means I wasn't moved. I wasn't moved enough to sit for five minutes,still, soaking in overly used catch phrases and ridiculously harmonious tunes. All the while contemplating  the idea that I just watched something that was born into reality, yet remarkably nonexistent. fictitious, yet clearer then the food I just ate. Perhaps its the blank droll of the bland, empty space sitting there, practically saying "I'm here! fill me with your ideas", but watching those small little white names move across the screen is one of the most efficient time periods of not only the one hour in which you watched the movie, but in some cases, the day. yes, you pick up information which you could never  pick up staring at a black screen, but you never processed it until then. if you watch the movie credits, it means the movie made you think. it means there was so many valuable emotions and information coming from the actors, you needed that extra five minutes of silence and drab liquidity to figure out why that movie spoke to you.  I've always preferred books over movies, but when I watch a movie, I tend to get inspired. 

Rising

I am whole
I am
nonchalant
rocking
rock
rocking
below the depths of a flood
arms outstretched, tunes seeping
but not quite touching
the bowls of
the heart.
it is broken
it is insanely sweeping,
gracefully before my eyes
but not quite touching
the depths of my mind.
for, I am lost,
beyond comprehension
uprising
rising from her own creation,
a flood
a flood emotionally erratic,
scattering towards an open heart
yet not quite touching.
this is a tune
just there,
above the clouds and moonlit skies
nestled between her heart and ours.

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.