Purple Buses and Hippies.

Once upon a time,

you didn’t exist to me.

I never before had seen you face,

and you hadn’t pervaded any of my memories.

Once upon a time,

I was sitting on the front steps,

willing inspiration to strike me like lightning,

all so some curly haired handsome boy

could have some words by my hand.

Now you sit,

holding this,

and all I can dare to imagine is:

Are you with me tonight,

under these skies?

Hearing blaring music rattle you

like lullabies?

Do you see the moon

shining throughout the room,

just as I do?

Once upon a time,

You came into my world somehow.

I saw your face,

and I knew it was some act of fate

that I would remember with intangible grace.

Once upon a time,

I gave you a piece of my soul

in jumbled stanzas.

I gave you words,

to have and to hold,

to be a part of you,

undoubtedly forever and ever.

And once upon a time,

you read these words,

and maybe some thoughts of the future

drifted into your thoughts.

This I can only hope,

was I there, with you?

The thought has crossed my mind

ten thousand wonderful times.

Because it’s like she told you,

if you can see it, you can be it.

And indeed I see it,

with

you.

Can I be your once upon a time?

Make raindrops
fall from the floor.
Make me see the moon
right from the corner of my living room.
Let me dance on the pictures you
painted with cellophane candy sticks.
Give me the
space to suffocate.
Shimmy closer
and crash into me so i can
breath.
Steal my soul with
the sweetest intensity you
can manage to muster.
Lay all your dreams
down at my feet.
And i can tread ever
so
softly
upon all of them.
Do you see me like i see you?
b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l
1. 2. 3 .4.
This is consistent in faking more.
Tell me a story, baby,
and weave webs of wonderful,
only
only…
for me.

Typical of the Inhabitions.

Why bother with the typicality’s of things

when the whole world inhabits itself

upon ridiculous notions

handed, or thrust rather,

to us of the human race?

Is there any sense of

the protocol of Pandora’s Box

being irrevocably unlocked?

Was there ever any to begin with?

These may be the questions

humanity as a complete piece

refuses to acknowledge

or ask themselves.

Or to ask the hierarchy of the world.

Who said they were in charge

of seemingly soulless bodies

in the first sense?

Don’t ever be fazed by the anarchy

that the cesspool

of “geniuses” say they spit upon,

when in reality,

they generate all of it themselves.

Only to “destroy” what they have indeed created.

Don’t believe the heresy and nonsense

your paper towns print

“For your well being”

in black and white.

Those words stain your hands,

and in a syntax,

your soul.

Do you wish to be marked until your dying day?

Or do you wish for the enlightenment

of truth to rain down

on your extremely undetainable,

and if you will it so,

untouchable psyche?

The choice,

one that is quite obvious,

belongs to you,

and you alone.

Underlies.

Daunted hands claw for the drunken vessel

catching before the fall.

Heavily reaching for the brush

to turn me into a masterpiece of your own.

The shadows stifle the sounds

that would otherwise be

deafeningly profound.

Your hands fondle

the bittersweet symphony

of laughter raining endlessly

from my unsatisfied mouth.

I am new and unused,

all you see is your canvas

and from your hands I demand

unpretentious abuse.

As you condemn me with each touch

I feel from your fingertips,

you absolutely must sense my vulnerability

beneath your skin.

It is not there,

but is indeed just as much.

I beg you to crash down upon my world

and taste the weeping silence

I so eloquently let you make prey of.

An artist you remain so,

even through the work

you now see fit to do.

(it is irrevocable i suppose)

But throughout the night,

and into the day,

artist upon canvas echo into the steeping underlies.

Kaleidoscope crime.

A lovely hat check girl was found strangled by a guitar string in a rowboat on St. Patrick’s Day. The detective found traces of a voodoo charm as well as a heathen idol. The case is solved by a paper in a hatband. As it turns out, she hung herself with guitar string with the motive of being returned to her dead spouse as stated by her hand in her own hatband.

sitting high on a shelf you’ve carved for me.

Your words

linger in my mind.

Tinged with an unfathomable grace.

Eternally fixed in an

aesthetic state.

You

are my philosophy

In which undying

agitation begs to

prolong a misunderstood

deciding emotional enigma.

I ask for truth

-nay, I beg for it-

What discrepancies will

my discomforted soul

stumble upon whilst

I am displaced

from your catalytic

intentions posed for me?

Only in this,

my inexplicable love,

will my undermined feelings

ever render such a question.

Nevertheless, I still beg of you

to serve me with nothing but

the undeniable oration of truth.

The way it’s written.

You know, I really don’t have a writing technique or style. Inspiration strikes at random. Most of the time it’s when I am trying to fall asleep. Then, I’ll get so worried I won’t remember what I was going to say, I have to get up and write it all down. I just got over a severe case of writer’s block, but Emerald and a few other things helped me breath again. When ever I get stuck in the endless mire of words, I literally have to take a few days off to get my conscience clear or thinking properly.

Choosing a book in the Library.

Going to get a book in the library should be fairly simple, but not when it turns to be a strange endeavor. 

I went to the school library to get a mere book, then as soon as I picked it up, it exploded right in my hand! I blew my arm entirely off, and bits and pieces were all around the entire floor of the library. The librarian then proceeded to ask me if I was okay. I have no arm, and that’s what she decides for her big question to be.

Then I thought I had better get another book anyway, so I picked up a classic. It made my eyeballs rupture. Once again, the librarian asked if I was okay, I answered not to her ridiculous question and I instead felt around for a book. I would tell you what it was, but as you should remember, I have no eyeballs now. Well, that book blew my other arm off, so I decided to lay down and wait for my limbs to grow back. I fell asleep eventually.

When I did awake, I was lying in the floor of my room, everything intact, and I vowed to never again stay up on nothing but coffee and sugar induced insomnia.

 

The end.

 

P.S.

True dream I had 3 nights ago written in haste.

I care not.

Metaphorically speaking.

Life to me is too much like a simile;

Life is like this,

Life is like that.

But death, on the other hand

is an absolute metaphor.

We know what life’s simile is,

but for death we have only metaphors,

because we live life everyday,

but taste death naught but once.

So describing words are needed

to compare

what we haven’t seen,

but what will inevitably be there.

And although it’s a terrible mess, explanations are in order.

You’ve consumed me

even to the very core.

I can’t explain how this has occured,

but I’m sure I will forever

be at a loss for words.

I feel like a little girl

wrapped in a feather-down,

and even if I attempted so,

I could never frown.

Look at what you’ve done,

it’s absurd.

I can’t believe it happened,

how is this what we’ve become?

In a state fixed in perpetual beauty,

I will smile while you whisper sweetly and

softly to me.