We are to assume nothing of the prettiest of people. It either is little or something or other simple inside, yet hard to find.
The only immediate subsitute for love is a song. It can completely fool you. It’s usually what we want. If there’s no one, a good song can make us feel like someone’s waiting right outside our door, simply listening to the sounds we make and the songs we listen to. When we walk towards the door they run. We stay where we are. We know they’ll run. We do the same, standing...
Feast of Fools
The secrets that hold a soul wrenched in agony, hardly are, that that sit out in the open. These are. Even ours hide from us. Bring them out in the open to smell such burning flesh. It all works as debt. We always lie to borrow:: to avoid our debt. It eats us with interest. Your debt leaves you in. And that burning smell turns to rots on and on, the more we sit in it. We sit in cold, placid metal...
For a few seconds my heart died. It stopped. My eyes lay inside a head, laying on a hopsital bed. Something just gave up in me and now it’s missing. You lose all feeling. For a few seconds, months and years what’s the difference when nothing’s beating? It’s painful to wake up. Something inside of you becomes less vivid, except, it wasn’t ever tangible. But you miss it...
It was just too hot. That’s my only excuse. We were on our way to Utah (for no great reason) and the car didn’t even have the air conditioner to break down on. So, I took my shirt off. It was just too hot. It was a two way highway and her car passed mine. She gave me the funniest look, only a smile. I haven’t felt hotter since.
Don’t sit in the middle. It’s okay to give up on what you want. But choose what you love or it’s all in no mans’ land. It’s okay to do what you love, to die for it even. But I hope you don’t die for yourself. Just as much would be a shame if you only loved for yourself. It’s a strange kind of pity. I pray it’s not self pity. It would be a stranger...
You don’t have to be an artist. You don’t need to sing. People will still have something beautiful to listen to. They put it in a gallery, all and all just a wall. But when someone really loves you won’t they frame you? And if they care won’t they listen to? That makes you famous in a strangley large way. Your work was in another. They listened as you sang.
I used to think. But now the world has become painfully dull as I wait for something to start from somewhere else, from someone besides me. It’s more than a staring contest, waiting for the next guy to blink. It’s waiting for something that isn’t going to change. Not thinking follows you where ever you go.
Sometimes I hate words: not these words, not the written word or the spoken. When everything inside passively dissaproves of you every minute, every dying second: you just wish there was a way to forget the concept of words.
c + l = d
-She’s beautiful. -In everything there is pain even love and the lack thereof. -The concept of tomorrow isn’t unassuming. -If people remember you after your death, it shouldn’t be mistaken for immortality. -The man who never loves is at a great loss the same as anyone who refuses to accept fear or hate. Whenever you mix two, the third is close by. -The voice of reason...
There are a lot of little things in the mirror I mean. There are A lot of little things staring back at me, not me, but what other people see staring back there are a lot of little things staring here and there are a lot of little things that stare.
Try try try
Success is perception Or is it a standard? Raise it a bit higher. We have failure.
When you say “I love you” speak it as a sin, as if you were no longer a virgin. Let living in it crush you. Love like it could kill you. Slowly, on accident and almost intentional to where nothing seems peaceful where nothing seems fanciful… Hope feels like a candle. Let not the wind blow or and unwelcome whisper take. All you needed was a little longer or so. You will...
Note to self: Write about that feeling. It didn’t make any sense. It was that butterfly “I’m in love” feeling without having someone tangible to be in love with. yeah, write about that.
Asymmetry could mean pretty. Believe me. There are a great many things that aren’t even and, well, they’re still pretty. It doesn’t have to fit or belong. They can still weigh wrong. Asymmetry doesn’t always mean ugly, hardly ever really.
Travel the universe to leave you lost between star after star and space after space. Not the way the earth to a strange depth deeper then a man in a city could discover. A city or a soul, two become whole, Space being a lonely place shouldn’t wait (shouldn’t wait). Just the same to sit and age over embers: the lack of everything.
Would you rather travel the whole world or the...
Your love is a gateway drug. It leads me bleeds me makes my skin go numb. frozen fingers and something warm. Corners don’t know what they’re good for. More and more more more and more Yet a start seems not too far Not too large. Isn’t as I diminish. (It isn’t) It isn’t. Give me no closure, peace or wonder. Thisness in hope and ending no loss, Conform your...
I write some fancy stories. It’s called dreaming. Not day dreaming, I mean sleeping. I’m off to write.
write about that mother with a smoke in her right and a baby in her left on the slummy front lawn affordable housing baggy eyes and How we wonder how close we are from where she is. yeah, write about that.
It’s comforting to hold a pen in your hand. Even if it’s not to write or draw anything, to sit there and feel the weight slide between your fingers. It fits. At times, I find the back of my fingernails to be black or blue. My fingers like to run across the tip of the pen within my pocket. It always catches me off guard.
Throwing myself upon a chair, I remained for some time absorbed in meditation....– Edgar Allan Poe (via eatsleepmoresleep)
It was shaped like a gun, and his smile grew as his hand went closer to his head. It was a slow process drawn out to add suspense to the listener. By the time he pulled the trigger his smile began to seem twisted. “But there weren’t any bullets in the gun” he said, “my friend new I wasn’t gonna use it for rabit huntin.” His right leg was in a cast and, he was...
It wasn’t the self doubt. That’s not the hardest part. When you’re pretty in a way no one expects you to the self doubt isn’t a milestone to get over. People feel like they’ve struck gold. It’s “Hey she’s actually hot. Look how great I am for noticing. The normal guy wouldn’t look twice.” and in that moment people want to treat you like...
You know what? I’m gonna go get a cup of coffee. Then, I’m going to get to work. It’s all going on in that order. It should be a rule.
She was pretty. It never changed. Not at fifty, not at eighty. She pressed herself between two pages. A grave of simple measures her Lingering, breathing, Listening still standing in the air, leaving with the wind It made no sense, until he found, a flower. A very old rose pressed between to pages and the weight of a book so heavy it weighted about the same as her hand on that fateful...
It sucks to be a book in a box. That box? It’s in the garage: so deep you’d have to swim ten feet deep. Well, that’s not even the worst of it. Imagine, that no one bothered to read you. Now that really sucks. You’d think a book as great as me could think of a better word to describe it. No, the word “sucks” really hits the nail.