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SympathyThere was a man yesterday at my window
Asking me why his wife had left him.
Opened the window,
Put my hands on his face,
And snapped his neck
“If you had only told her how much you loved her,
She could have given you all you wanted and more”
Me and You, Yesterday You asked me about my life yesterday, and at the time I wasn't really able to respond truthfully. Well, here you go: the complete and total truth (because I literally have nothing better to do).
Two days ago I enlisted myself in a 10 day insomnia research project to see if it would somehow help me wake me up to the reality of the world (ha, ha, see what I did there?). I don't know why; I don't even suffer from insomnia. Really, my enlistment in the program is like a giant dick up the ass of the research facility. They have to deal with assholes like me all the time. I guess I really don't care anymore- when they find out I don't qualify I'll probably be too far into the study for them to take any legal action. Even if I don't finish the study I still get a stipend. That's a consolation, I guess.
The thing that keeps me up at night isn't really insomnia, it's my over analytical thought process. I have an obsession with the human condition- with eyes especially
LinearLife seems to move in a
Linear direction in
From brights to black.
It turns greyer every day
Like your hair will do;
Like your sight will do
Where are we now?
Can we point on a palate?
On a page?
When we run our fingers through
The braile-stained book of life
We flip the switch, close the door, and
Try to sleep through the darkness.
I think that our days are
Darkened by insight
And pictures of long dead insects
I think that we believe
Our perfect wings to be broken.
Are we as old now at this moment
As we will ever be,
Or is everything happening…
I Know BetterShe whispers to me with her eyes when she thinks I'm not looking;
I'd say she hates me,
Steeping TeaThere is a place not too far from your
Mind’s eye where an alligator sits down
To enjoy the scenery. However, as he
Sits, the world begins to melt.
First go the trees, melting like little
Wax soldiers left out in the sun. The
Alligator doesn’t really mind. He is paying
Too much attention to the mouth forming
In the centre of a purple marsh.
As he watches, the mouth begins to swallow
The colour from the world. And it is
Painful, too. A million colours are gone now
As if they never existed, as if they were
Sucked from the flesh of imagination.
Finally the mouth opens to tell the alligator
Good morning, but the alligator is gone,
And the colourless sun has begun its descent.
Sleep DownWake up,
We can make breakfast in bed and
Weave together our calloused fingers
We can share our afternoons
Pretending like the world is made of diamonds
We can stay up late and
Laugh at those old nightime TV shows
Mr DeathMr. Death has got me by my teeth
WHY DON'T YOU RUN
WHY STOP NOW?
Do not dare to move a muscle.
Am I going insane?I can, only recall one time feeling like this, with my head, my thoughts...slipping away from me. You see, I know I am losing it, that I am going insane. I can feel it, I wonder if others will notice, right now my mind is screaming at me to curl up around my heart tight and keep it safe while I lose the rest of me. I hope that I will be able to come back from this...whatever it is, I truly hope so. But..right now I am not so sure, if I am fully honest with you, to those reading this. My heart, my feelings, my love is entrusted to my most special person, my Kin'va. I..pray that she will hold onto me, help me through what I can feel coming. My thoughts already start to scatter worse and worse, I have to look farther to find them, and hold tighter to them so they do not run away from me. When I go to sleep tonight I just hope that I will wake up still me.
That's all Это все.
-Ты смеешь еще появляться на улице? – девчушка посмотрела на меня с таким нескрываемым холодным презрением, что я невольно подивился, как под
Not A WriterI am not a writer. In fact, I am nothing of the sort. I am just a girl with an all-encompassing imagination.
It is true that I can build a story off of a sentence, but I am not a writer. It is true that I can create characters that people love, but I am not a writer. It is true that I can make stories that make one cry or smile, but I am not a writer.
But, I have to ask myself, what is a writer?
Is a writer someone who can build a story off of a sentence?
Is a writer someone who creates characters that people love?
Is a writer someone who makes stories that make one cry or smile?
It has been said I can do these things, yet I am not a writer.
No one has come to me, proclamation in hand, and declared me a writer. But does that mean I am not one? For truly, is a writer someone who can spin ballads just for the fun of it?
Whoever reads this, let me know your thoughts.
To you, what is a writer?
Waiting in Chinatown (a very short story)I’m sitting in a restaurant on the corner of two streets in Chinatown. I’m waiting for someone. She was supposed to meet me at 1:00 for lunch. That was half an hour ago. I’m starting to lose hope.
I’m sipping on some green tea. It’s okay, although I've never been much of a tea drinker. The waitress walks over to me. Her English isn't very good, but I can make out that she’s losing patience with me. It’s understandable; I've been sitting here alone for half an hour and I haven’t ordered anything except tea. I order another cup, simply as a stalling tactic.
I watch people walk by. Not as many of them are Chinese as you’d think. Chinatown in London is different from others I've been to. The Chinatown here is almost all restaurants and shops; very few Chinese people actually live here. They’re spread out all across London. There are almost as many whites, blacks, and Asians here as there are Chinese people. I like it though; it ma
ContradictionMaybe I don’t understand the world,
Maybe I understand too much.
I could be so genius I look past,
I could be so clueless I never saw.
Either way, it doesn’t make sense.
Why love isn’t returned,
Why we go crazy,
Why choices suddenly change,
Why things go backwards.
People hate, get angry.
Then, someone leaves…
And they fall in love.
I don’t understand it.
Going to depths,
To bring someone back,
Who is already gone.
Why do we try?
You use selfless actions,
In selfish attempts.
It only contradicts yourself.
It’s the creator of these problems.
The Unhappy MermaidThe Unhappy Mermaid
Off the coast of the Hawaiian islands a pod of merfolk lived under the forever moving currents of the ocean. They swam in the reefs under the light of the full moon and dove out to the deep waters by day. Their life was peaceful and calm. One mermaid was not happy with playing with dolphins and collecting sea shells. She wanted to fall in love.
The mermaids name was Kaimana , which means diamond and that is exactly what Kaimana thought she was. No one was as good as her. She was the fastest swimmer and had the most beautiful hair. Her tail was a deep magenta color, different from the common greens and blues. Kaimana thought very high of herself but that did not make her completely unloving. She was kind when expected but mean whenever anyone questioned her choices. Pride was one of the mermaids flaws, but not the worst. No, the worst flaw was Kaimana’s inability to be happy.
One cool night, when the moon was but a sliver, the merfolk surfaced above one
Meaning of LifeWe live to learn.
Once we learn we take our jobs.
These jobs are seen as out “place” in life.
But all those jobs do,
Is make impact
For the next generation.
It’s all a loop,
That can’t be why
We individually live.
In science we’re taught,
Some animals die
So that must be it.
But, living to create more,
That will do the same,
Just to die?
Well, then no.
That can’t be right either.
There’s more, I’m sure.
But if those ideas,
Came to nothing,
Then tell me.
What is the unknown meaning?
Why do we live?
What’s the point?
Why is life a “chance”?
How did we even come to be,
And live for?
Poetic Stories: Death's PeaceIt all begins with the thought
I feel so dead being alive,
And imagining myself dead,
I’d be so much more alive
Many times, it’s that thought,
That means they can’t turn back themselves.
With that statement,
There’s no more fighting.
They want better, to find peace.
Maybe death is peace and all, but…
Those who fall under that statement,
They don’t quite realize,
The peacefulness in death.
The elderly - they die in peace.
The young… Do they ever truly die with a smile?
Life is not peace, it’s never peace.
Not for anyone.
Life is a harsh time full of happy moments.
Death is a tragic peace.
But there’s a reason that’s chronological.
You must live before you die.
You need to experience peace and the bad.
Not just experience, but understand.
That’s why the older people are when they die,
The more peaceful it’s found.
The reason that they can die with a smile.
Not because they’re running away from life,
The Air I opened my front door and lifted my eyelids. The morning air was cold enough to materialize my breath, but my face felt warm enough that the air was refreshing rather than chilling. I stepped into the doorway expecting something extraordinary, only to feel the familiar crunch of gravel under my shoes like tiny bones breaking under the weight of my conscious body. The morning was familiar with me already, though we had never met. She wrapped her body of fog around mine as I stepped out of my doorway and swept her icy fingers through my hair as I drifted down the pathway of gravel-bones. The day was my pet, she was my other half, we were one, and against such a non-concrete being I felt naked.
"Together," The morning seemed to whisper into my ears, "together, together, together."
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