“But why did you pick me?” and it wasn’t that he was a sort of mythological Greek god. She was in love and needed some sort of definition as to why he loved her in return.

Every girl he had ever been with longer than three months had asked “Why me” and, at one point or another, the question really turned into “Worship me?”

Through the last few girlfriends he went on autopilot; it was all about telling them what he liked about women in a way where it looked like he was talking specifically them.

He’d say “You have a wonderful smile” and she would, but never more than his last date. He, like most men, had a subconscious list of compliments he could honestly say about any would he’d ever date. They were unique; so it was easy to tell them it was so without lying.

“Why did you pick me” it didn’t rub off the same way. She was different from simply being factually different. He finally wanted to say something unique only to her. He wanted to say a thousand things he’d never said to anyone else; he’d run dry of unrepeated poetry.

So When she asked “But why me?” He smiled, embarrassed, and said, “I love you in a way I can’t quite describe.” She would never realized how much he really loved her, except to see it through a lifetime.

He promised then to never repeat what he’d said to her.

As the song ran from my ears to the brain, and from the brain to my heart, there was no denying who was in control; it wasn’t me.

Not a single chord connected between the song and my emotions. They didn’t fit. If my eyes had gone closed it wouldn’t made a difference. Pitch black, sitting in the corner of the room where the only movements came from a pair of headphones.

Then as the song running from an old CD player began to skip began to skip began to skip began to skip began to skip…
It became the only thing that ever directly relate. It recycled the same odd emotion over and over again leaving a pile of a mental waste.

The room carried itself without any light, and there was no knowing if it was in to imagine somewhere completely different, or just to forget the house entirely. The walls, the home, the lifestyle, weekdays and weekends and then the repeat. They make you’re world smaller. There’s no room to breathe.

The music didn’t end. It ran over the lyrics “will yo-, will yo-, will yo- will yo-” but then “love me” couldn’t possibly be lyrics coming up, not anymore.

The same way the CD player couldn’t think of what came next, well, neither could anyone else.

She’s really pretty.

It doesn’t matter who

Or why.

The “really”
needs no specification
no proportion

Simplify the sentence?

She is.

Death came from the heart. The heart, as it filled within its own pumping liquid. ripped in its moment of death as we all though heart break felt like murder. This was quicker; this was colder. Dare they both say, it was love.

The knife at hand, hands to their limbs and these systems stemmed from a deep red burning feeling only satisfied with the that same, shimmering, color.

This isn’t bleeding. Bleeding defines the word for scraped fingers and paper cuts. More as drowning and complete submersion deep within an entire universe of feelings: the heart is an unnoticed black hole. It will pull all existence into itself as a demand: as its purpose in life.

Something’s dripping to the floor. There’s that painful beating sound. Cold, colder, but hardly freezing, my last feeling is this miserable attempt in breathing. There’s air to my lungs; it holds nothing in.

Don’t think my story is close to lying. It is no metaphor or shape shift feeling. Both say they loved in the way we all misunderstand it as such. This is death (my death alone). The tragedy is. Love left only one casualty. Red can be a painful feeling.

Stop doubting whether it’s actually “okay” to say it or not. I know it, and she knows it, and I know What you’re afraid to say.

When she gave me that embarrassed look and finally asked “how could you love a blind man?”
My feelings finally spilled.

“You say that like money makes a man more attractive. Anne, you say that like you’d have never married Trevor had he been three inches shorter. Don’t ask me how I can love him. If you couldn’t love me if as a cripple then you never loved me. You don’t know what love is.”

She thought he saw less than the average guy; it was just the opposite. His fingers once ran down the side of my face just like the cold rain in Seattle would. He held my in a loving way, and his touch was tender as if to tell never to let go. He wanted to see me. His want had given him more sight than any other shallow soul with eyes. Their sight would graze across my face and there was nothing more. I felt him. To Anne he could only hear, but to me he was the only one who could truly feel. I knew he loved me; he’d drop his white cane and we’d walk together. We’d here the same sounds with the cold wind running across the both of us.

Dreams are a revolution. They come with hope and wonder. They will, more often than not, leave us hanging from a tree for treason.

The only time to follow through with a dream is when there’s no longer anything left to lose.

Too many people dream with envy, with a hypocrisy that only implies trading places with the greater as if they deserved it more. These dreams are revolutions bringing in the next big dictator. New and innovative ideas brought on by a grand obligation.

Except she had a dream and deserved it. I looked at her dimples, soft eyes and her sweet smile. There’s more for her than a cage build of guilt.

Snow White and the whole Disney crew deserved less than her.
She was sunshine, and she was rain. Days like this, I just wish I could’ve been her dream.

In my love and in my wonder my thoughts began to tie a noose. The table was set as I sat on the plate (truly, you can never tell with these things). She kicked the stool. There goes the crack of my neck.

Love is a revolution.

Wake up, snooze button, brush teeth and shower
Don’t forget the tie. What is it, Wednesday? It’s not really important. I’ll find out at the office. Take the elevator, go to the parking lot, drive. Up until this moment everything had gone on the same way any other work day went.

Mark lived alone, ate alone, slept alone and everything he did where another soul had not yet been present had gone on just in its average, predictable way.

But when he got onto the freeway, he drove alone. He slowed down at all of the stoplights alone and he found himself being the only one in line at the futurama automated espresso machine.

Mark’s life was based on consistency. There was nothing else to do but go to work as if the people around him never really existed in the first place. It was now plain they made no difference in Mark’s life whatsoever.

Their lack of existence meant absolutely nothing, and to prove this, Mark simply carried on to work, and from there, towards his very small cubicle.
The only thing, so far, that he did in fact do different, based on the current course of events, was that he arrived at work early, being as there was no traffic.

The front office filled itself with the kind of silence that it had meant to speak its whole life (except that no one would shut up and listen). Mark yawned as he always yawned going up elevator towards the thirteenth floor. He even gazed out the window before getting to work
the same as he always had.

He then realized today would turn out very different from every other Thursday he ever gone through before.

Inspired by the video game Canabalt

Note: to discover the ending, play the video game.

When she asked for a rose bed there was this idea that, maybe, roses would be involved.

This guy had a way of surprising her in all the ways she didn’t quite expect. Even when she said “surprise me”
Even then, when she knew it was coming, he still had a way of coming up from behind in a way that wasn’t quite intentional.

“Surprise me” with any other guy in reference to Valentine’s day usually meant dinner with flowers at the front the door.

He’d come close, except the flowers were in her front yard.

She remembered saying once that she had always wanted a rosebed in her front yard; they weren’t even dating then.

So, in her front yard was a rosebed full of tulips, and from any other guy she’d of called him off for the twat he was being. Not him. He was different. It was like he knew he didn’t fit.

Even then, he didn’t fit in a way she didn’t quite expect.

Reading the funnies
I find attractive
Read, smile, laugh
repeat

All that we own
is just bellow
But each concept
each wonder, becomes
heaven
As its height is
mistaken for splendor.

eatsleepmoresleep:

Tumblr blogs are a little like radio talk shows.
Don’t call into one to disagree.
Because even if you are right,
you’re still gonna get verbally bashed over the head for whatever you say.

As trees breath,
Just through their leaves,
they hold their breath

And just the same
We wait inside
for outlets to grow
and allow for you in.

Winter is long
(and through the sleeping cold)
I will wait to grow (in summer)
in the warmth of a sun.
And breath you in

Fresh, cool
liberating air
and breath you in
unknown, and fair.

I write to discover myself
And the biggest risk at hand:
that the world will find out
that I am a complete fool.

Every soul is put on the spot
whenever they choose to leave
the inner parts of their conscious.

To speak, write, draw, sing,
play, act, paint, and all the sorts
if they provide no risk in proving me a fool
really, I would find myself no different
Had I changed my day job to
working at the local grocery store.

Please just know this poem isn’t about sounding pretty
or rolling off the sides of ones tongue.
This is me, saying I’m afraid of looking the fool.
To bring in the deeper as it
comes from a foolish heart
a simple mind
and a broken soul.

The countless proverbial sayings that float within our social universe don’t mean much of anything. I find myself treading through the same water. Every witty thought prepared me with a revelation. It would only do me good with experience itself. Piggybacking off of the wisdom from the older, more thought of, it has a funny way of fooling the presumptuous.

The ground felt cold as I played with it through my fingers. With nothing to gaze at except the horizon and countless fields to cross: it all came out as a desert filled only with the tall straw colored grass. Only that cool breeze coming from the west, and only that, followed with a welcoming familiar feeling. The house was the only exception in this land of grass. The insides would turn dull in comparison to almost any view.

But then, there was one place I would later find to be of great interest. The attic, well, is where the inhabitants would turn to, to throw out the pictures becoming too painful to remember. There in the corner was a chest filled with a lovely white wedding dress. The attic, and only the attic, was dusty and neglected of attention. There would be great pain in throwing any of these things away, simply in light of all the guilt that would be carried along with the long trip to the trashcan. I thought they had lived meaningless lives, at least, until the day I came upon that strange unspoken room.

The attic was the only room I understood. It was also the place passion could safely hold a physical form. The letters in boxes were once secrets to be held and loved. I understood nothing. I was young, and only the attic explained how anyone could bare to stay in such a place. Teddy bears, worn out dresses, children’s blankets, baby bottles, the crib with teeth marks, and even the chest locked tight with the most passionate secrets, they all explained why anyone would stay forever in such a neglected place. It was their memory which held them down to such a dull and unending place. Strange that it was the attic that held the sole duty of remembrance; everyone else was too busy trying to forget.

This would be the place I would work the ground, at least for the summer. There would be no beauty in this soil, not until I found the crop growing from my gasps for breath and dripping sweat. Nothing less than my constant unending time would allow me to understand that which held me down on earth. No poetry, not a single book I brought with me, not the dwindling letters that flowed from the city, none of it would give me the insight to understand the hands that grew the crop. I understand nothing of the place I live in. I will never understand this place until there has been work from my hands, and a broken soul.

1) make a list based on one single theme.
Ex: Awkward moments, things I love, jobs I absolutely hated, strange smells and what they come from. The more elaborate the list the better.

2) Find at least one thing on the list that deserves an explanation.
Ex: That time I sat next to that one girl on the bus, jello, working at Baskin Robbins, and waking up to the scent of old stale coffee.

3) After these things have been explained, either publish them as they are or create/incorporate them into stories.

Ex:” I woke up to the smell of stale coffee and it quickly became apparent to me that I had fallen asleep with a mug held snug in between both of my legs. This was completely inconvenient considering the stale coffee spilled all over my work pants I had fallen asleep in the night before, and not only that: I was late for work. Seeing as I was already late, the only thing I could think to grab, by chance, was a cup of Jello. There wasn’t any time to think and I somehow found myself sitting next to the lady wearing a seemingly real beard. It very much looked like she grew it to keep people from sitting next to her on the bus and it was quite obvious that I had ruined her plan. Great, at work everyone thought I wet my pants. I’ll have to get these dry cleaned. There was nothing left to do but stand around and scoop ice cream to annoyingly cheerful costumers and hope no one else notices the strange and smelly stain on my pants.”

Personally, I usually day dream, but this is my opt out.