Other Blog

Check out my other blog, which is almost like this blog but newer ...

http://fallingfromanonymity.blogspot.com

I Like To Write

I like to write
because I can be me
or I can be you
or I can be a boy, a girl,
or a monkey who talks
I can make mistakes
and my grammar can be off
and I can misspell a word
or perhaps even make one up
I can order the mix word
I can stop my idea just as I
I can create a world
with volcanoes of chocolate
or one where my dad is still alive
I can make a friend
and happy ending
or I can make an enemy
and bleed across the page
I can invite you to read
or close the cover on your fingers
I can make you happy
or make you laugh
or make you miserable
and I can control your mind
and I know it may not be important
but I will still write it anyway
just because
I like to write

Waves

The beach always makes me think.  The waves are enormous as they hover over the sand like a villain in a dark alley of a poorly made horror film and then crash into the ground; they disappear.  Pummeling one after the next they each take a chance to prove that they are the greatest wave to ever come out of the ocean, only to be absorbed into the ground they smack into without praise, applause or congratulation.  Foam remains of the once majestic water king and is quickly washed away by the next in line.
I always believed that our lives are like waves.  We humbly begin as tiny ripples amongst an ocean of a billion others.  All of us dream of making it to the shore line to prove ourselves worthy to the rest of the world.  Continually fighting and growing we make our way closer to our goal until we peak and crash down into the ground to remain there for the rest of eternity.  A lot of people have told me that is such a morbid thing to think about, but I still believe it is a pretty comparable analogy.
This is why I always come to the beach at night; it is calming and soothing.  My mind is at ease when I see the dark sky above a seemingly endless supply of water, rising and sinking to the whims of the moon.  The sun always bothered me at the beach.  I am always blinded and unable to witness the beauty of death and rebirth that is occurring before me.  I tend to go alone too, since no one seems to understand the symbolism of what I see.  But that is also how I have always been, alone in the world of seven billion people.

The Note

It was about quarter to six when I got home from work, lights all out in my apartment, and I wondered why since she should have been home from work by now herself.  She did not text me at all today but I was so busy myself I had hardly realized until I walked up to my front door, unlit and knob slightly colder than normal.  I walked inside with nothing out of place, but a note was placed upon the counter.  It read:

"Dear Samuel," which is never good when my full first name is used,
"I wanted to tell you in person but I did not have the heart.  It is not that I do not love you anymore, I promise you I do, but I also just was talking with Janine and, well, I think it just isn't fair for me.  I think I settled."

At that moment it was as if the knife beside the note just pierced through my chest.  Settled?    After three years now you finally realized the big epiphany?  One talk with a friend is all it takes?  Settled?  My mind could not wrap itself around this idea after three years.

"I know you think I am crazy."  Perhaps I should have read this part as well before I reacted; perhaps it was a positive thing that at least she knew.

"I truly do apologize. I do not want you to blame yourself or think you're anything less than amazing."  I think this is my favorite part I read.  I am not good enough for you, but I am nothing less than amazing.  The oxymoron for the regular moron.  I got a little bitter by this point, as it became obvious that this whole letter was a sham to make herself feel better.

"I never cheated on you."  As she writes that down, it just becomes implanted in my head that maybe she did.

"I have always loved you."  I doubt it.

"And I hope you never forget what we had together."  At this point of the letter I almost threw it away.  However, for whatever reason, my mind needed to be berated a bit more by this complete bull my now ex was saying.

"However, I am leaving, forever."  And there was the nail in the coffin.  It was finally spelled out.  I just have no idea why she was doing this to me through a letter.  Really?  A letter?  In an era where technology is everywhere almost to a fault, you write me a letter.  I could not even hear her last words to me, I had to read them.

"I should explain the conversation I had with Janine.  We were talking about you and Marc and how you two are great boyfriends and how we love each of you truly and madly.  You give me everything I need before I ask it and buy me little gifts just because it is another day we have been together.  And I smile, but I settled.  I settled for the prince the five year old me wanted, instead of the king the thirty year old me needs.  I know that may not make sense to you, but every Abercrombie and Fitch model walking down the street reminded me of everything I could be having, but they won't settle for me like I did for you.  I do love you, I promise, but I need to go.

Love,
Aimee."

I had no idea what that last paragraph meant, I read it back and forth and really had no idea.  I was genuinely stumped.  I picked up my phone and called her to just ask her nothing more than what that cryptic end meant, and I heard her phone in the bedroom.  I opened the door and saw her on the bed in a pool of blood with the other kitchen knife in her hand and a deep slice across her neck.

Bathroom Break

I was having a conversation with him about the economic crisis we are having in our house; the fact is we can barely afford Spaghetti-O's for our two children every night for dinner.  He constantly ignores me though every time I bring it up, either claiming the problem exists only in my mind or that there must be something more interesting to converse about other than the dilapidated cabinets that hold a box of saltines and a colony of termites.  Tonight was different though, I felt, as he was going to have to give me answers.

"Mallory got sent home from school again today," I started the conversation.
"For what now?" he replied.
"Some kid made fun of her lunch, so she punched him."
"That's my girl."
"You really don't take any of this seriously do you?"
"She defended herself, isn't that..."
"That what we want her to do?  Punch people at any sight of adversity?  Any difficulty in her life?  Well then, why doesn't she start punching you for this hell hole of a home?"
"Hell hole of a home?  Excuse me?   Who do you think you're talking to?  If it weren't for me we wouldn't be in this home."
"So what?  Where would we be?  On the street?  Oh no, perhaps the ants there are slightly kinder than the termites here."
"Ha, ha, ha," his laughs are sarcastic and deliberate, "maybe they are.  Maybe they could lend us some of their money that they pick up off the ground."
"It'd be better than what we make."
"Than what you make..." he mumbles softly.

Right then my world froze.  He just placed the blame squarely in my hands, like slop in a pig trough, waiting for me to react to his words.  He knew what he just said and he knew that it angered me, but I kept my composure for just a moment.

"And Huxley..." I began to say until I was cut off.
"What about Huxley" he butted in.
"Huxley was crying today about how he can't have Spongebob fruit snacks like everyone else."
"Again, not my fault."
"I don't see how you can keep avoiding accepting this."
"Because none of this is my fault.  I work day in and day out.  And you work half the goddamn year!  You go to school, play with kindergartners and then come home and complain.  Nag.  Nag.  Nag."  The last three words very slowly stated, as if trying to entice a swing from me.
"Don't go there you know I don't like when ..."
"Why?  Because you know it's true?" he begins to interrupt but I keep speaking.
"... you go there.  No it's not true!  Are you kidding me?"
"I make most of the money in this household,"
"Because there is nothing I can do!  It is not my fault that education does not pay its teachers..."
"You need to stop because you know that you are wrong here."
"Wrong?!  Wrong that I have a low salary for a job that is incredibly important."
"You work half a year!  You are lucky to get what you are making."
"I am not getting into this argument.  We still are flat broke regardless."
"Not regardless.  Because of this!"
"Listen, we have no money.  That is the problem."
"And it is because..." he begins to egg me on.

I literally began to turn red with anger.  I could feel my face heating up and my head start to swell with profanity.  I began sweating just a little and tried to wipe it away as quickly as it formed as to not show him that he was getting to me.

"...exactly."

I was furious at this moment, but could not even begin to formulate words appropriate to defend myself nor debunk his ignorant thoughts.  Before I could finally begin to say anything, he interrupted my thoughts.

"When you decided to put our family in financial strain, we agreed to move forward the best we could.  This is the best we can.  So stop this constant, every Tuesday night argument that I have no reason to be a part of.  Just realize that Mallory and Huxley are fine.  They are gaining character.  Life isn't easy."

He patted me on the head and walked to the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him.

Obsession

She stares at him,
It is funny to watch,
She thinks it is all lovey dovey
but it seems more like
deer in headlights
to everyone else.

She is young though,
just turning eighteen,
and he a grown man of
thirty.  She follows him
like a sheep and every
morning, like a dog,
waits by the door.

Sometimes I will tell her,
Stop waiting for him,
Stop giving in, just move forward,
He doesn't even know
your name, but she repeats his
every word and thought,
some obsessed repeating parrot.

I find it sad, but I am just a voice.
One day she will realize
that she is just a peacock
fluttering for attention
in a forest of flowers and butterflies.

The Multiple Stories of Balloons, Pencils and Pillows.

I.  He lies awake in his bed, head cushioned softly atop his pillow, staring drearily at his ceiling.  Above him floats several balloons from his 30th birthday party from that day, a slowly rotating ceiling fan and a spider so timidly crawling from one side of the room to where he now lies.  He became so incredibly anxious now, with his life flashing forward quicker than he could ever imagine and having no worthy accomplishments to show for it.  "Thirty," he kept repeating in his head.  "Thirty short, short years.  And in another I am sixty."  The spider timidly walks towards the man, who is staring directly at it unfazed, and starts to spin a web to drop down towards his face.  "How did I become this old?" he reflects, still staring at the dropping spider.  "Look at him, so majestic and strong.  Building and constructing his dreams, his hopes and his strength.  And he is probably not even a few months old."  The spider continues to trickle down, forcing the man to finally gets out of bed as he notices how close the spider is getting to his face.  He grabs a pencil from his desk and places it right below the spider who gently lands on it.  With pencil in hand, he walks it to the front door and tosses it out into the bushes.  He walks back to his bed, puts his head on his pillow and looks at his 30th balloons dangling closer to the fan.  "Thirty..." he whispers as one of the balloons hits a fan blade and pops.

II. "Pencils down," the proctor says, with all of the students exhausted from the exam.  Terry, a straight A student, puts down his pencil and waits for the test to be collected.  "I'm sure you all did a great job and you worked really hard for this," the proctor says as she collects their papers.  When everything is collected, the students are instructed to leave and not discuss the test.  Terry walks out of the exam and hops on his bike to go home.  He contemplates some of the questions in his own head, still not satisfied with some of his answers.  Becoming increasingly depressed, he parks his bike in front of his house and walks into his house.  "SURPRISE!" a burst of excitement and balloons fill the room, as Terry looks nonplus.  "You did it sweetie!  You took the exam!" Terry's mother says.  "Yes, but I do not even know if I passed..." he retorts.  His mother, completely delirious with enthusiasm, pulls out a cake from the kitchen.  Still befuddled and slightly agitated, he yells, "Mother, I just want to go to sleep now!  Leave me alone!"  His mother, still excessively proud, runs into his room and grabs a pillow and hands it to Terry.  "Here is a pillow, rest your head on that couch over there but you are not leaving this party."  He reluctantly obliges as the rest of the guests cut into his celebratory cake.

III.  The light flickered on, and I, with nothing but the clothes I was wearing, sat in immense confusion about what had just happened.  I was walking my dog Sir Barks-A-Lot in the park when he ripped the leash out of my hand and then my memory goes incredibly fuzzy.  And then I woke up, sitting in a room full of pillows with no idea what to do.  The room was completely and entirely covered in pillows like some insane asylum, except there were no doors.  It was just me in a room of pillows.  I figured I was doomed to this until I had no energy, since I was not left food nor water.  I looked up for a second to realize there was a balloon floating close to the ceiling.  There seemed to be an object inside of it, but the balloon was too opaque that I had no clue as to what it could be.  Immediately, with my stomach growling, I thought it was food and quickly tried to get whatever I could to get the balloon.  The pillows however were firmly cemented to the wall and there was no way to rip them off or use them to my advantage.  So I sat back and looked at the balloon taunting me with its height, and began to figure out what could possibly be done to obtain it.  I feared, too, that this could all just be a diversion and really nothing beneficial would come out of the balloon, but I had no other option at that point.  So I jumped, climbed and screamed to try to get the balloon but to no avail.  I threw my clothes at it but nothing knocked it out of its high and mighty place.  Finally, out of what I believe to be sheer luck, my shoe hit the balloon in such a way that the pencil inside of it popped the balloon from inside out.  Then I realized, I just spent so much time trying to get a pencil out of a balloon.  I began cursing when a piece of paper also followed the balloon.  I looked at the piece of paper trying to see if there was any clues as to what I can do to get out of this room.  It was just a simple white piece of paper, just like the white pillows that filled the room, and I sat down and wrote this story.

IV. She smiled, looking into his tired smile filled with hope and optimism, seeing their wedding day coming up in a few days... and he slept, drooling uncontrollably.  She woke up early and concocted a breakfast for him, still sleeping.  It was a simple breakfast; bacon like pencils, rigid, slightly burnt and thin; two eggs with yolks like balloons filling up the plate; and a glass of milk as white as the pillow he was drooling on.  She smiled and went back to bed to hug her future husband.  When they both awoke, he rolled over, looked at her and said, "If I could write you a love letter I would, and throw you a party write after and finally end up in this bed, I would..." and she became confused, "but we have no bacon anymore and it is hard to pay this rent, and then we want to have children right after?  I think we spilled the milk here, and I am unsure if we can clean it all up and marry."  She was in a bewildered state, barely awake and upset at what was just said.  "You didn't need to write me anything or inflate my ego or comfort me when I go to sleep... you just needed to say I do..."  and she sat, sobbing uncontrollably.

Dinner

"Pass the salt please," a young man of about twenty-four asks from across the table. His eyes piercing green with a muscular physique obtained from five to six days a week at the gym, for three to four hours a session nonetheless. He is a model starting out his career which had the potential of going for years. He is the cliché "everyone wanted to either be with him or just be him" deal. His grandfather is the opposite, a rather frail old man who always claims to be eighty-five years young and never had charmingly good looks throughout any portion of his long life. He married a while back to a rather plain woman, but they were happily married for fifty-three years until she passed away.

The grandfather stares wearily back at his grandson and, while shaking, slowly reaches for the salt to pass along. The grandson smiles and waits, although mentally cursing out his grandfather's pace... "fucking slow ass MOVEEEEE." The grandson would not even be there if not for the duress of his mother, but he sits there forcing a smile as his grandfather takes his time passing the salt. The two have little to converse about either, even though the grandfather has been through several wars and experiences that the grandson could never even imagine having happened; yet the second hand on the clock is more loquacious than they are.

"Thanks," the grandson utters while barely looking at his grandfather. He pours a little on his french fries while texting his friend about plans for after this dinner with someone who he has been interested in for about a month now.

"What are you doing?" the grandfather inquires.
"Texting," the grandson responds.
"I miss when you actually had to walk to your friend's house to do that," is the response, rather predictably.
"Yeah well now we have phones gramps."
"You don't even look at me anymore though."
"I am right now!" his voice becomes a little louder.
"Don't you want to learn more about where you came from."
"No, I want to learn about where I am going, more specifically in the next hour after this."

The two become increasingly louder with each other. The grandfather though, realizing he will lose and fatigue easily, decides to concede the debate over to his younger counterpart. The grandson continues to text while the grandfather continued to eat his meal. Time slowly passes by when finally the two both finish their meal in silence.

"Well this has been fun gramps, but I am going to head out." the grandson says.
"It was nice seeing you," ironic in sentiment, responds his grandfather.

The grandson walks out the door and into his car. He calls his friend on the phone and starts the ignition.

"Hey yeah, I am finally out of that hellhole, I can be over your place and you're alone right?..."

As he begins to drive, the conversation between him and his friend continues about what they plan on doing with a free house without roommates. The two have been trying to hook up for weeks now and this is their first free moment between them. Although they have not been dating, the two have been more or less anticipating that would be the outcome of all of this. He hops on the freeway and speeds quickly and begins to merge.

"I cannot wait there are so many things I want to do to you..."

As he finishes the word, he quickly jets back and forth between traffic but misjudges the speed of one car, clips it and begins tumbling rapidly towards the divider. After a huge audible crash, the car begins to go up in flames.

The Tree, the Bridge and the Die

There was always this man, perhaps about 71 years old, that every day would walk to this old oak tree perched on a tiny hill overlooking the city.  He came alone every time that I would see him, but if I were blind I would have thought he had come up with at least two or three of his other friends.  He would always chatter and ramble to himself about the weather, the state of the economy, the new war on guns and the dilapidated condition of his house.  However, it was the fact that he spoke so loudly that caught my attention and drew me into his life.  I would never actually come up to him, but I would hide behind a bush like some secret agent, just learning about his life from the snippets of audio to which he let me listen.

His name was either Mark or Chris, as those were the only two names he has ever mentioned to himself. Although now that I think about it, his name might not be either of those because those might just be his friends.  Regardless, he mentioned those names on more than one occasion so undoubtedly they are of some importance.  He lived alone now as his wife, whose name I could never understand but sounded like a mix of Marybeth and Sheryl, passed away five years ago and he has been coming to this tree ever since.  I have only been noticing him for the past year though, but I come at least once a week in the summer and he has been there every time without fail.  He was a carpenter, started his own business when he was 21 and about to get married.  His life was perfect then, there was no depression or sadness, just positivity.  Slowly his life started to crumble.  One day he yelled about the time his wife came home late smelling of alcohol and cologne and how she crashed the car on the way home and needed to hitchhike home.  Yet the car did not have a dent when he went to find it the next morning.  Another day he yelled at how the government was forcing his business to pay more and more money every year, but nothing was changing.  Every day he would come to this tree, I would just wait for the keyword of what the argument was going to be today.  Taxes.  Overpopulation.  War.  Obesity.  Even if it sounded positive at first, the stories would always warp into some depressive nightmare.  Grandchildren.  Job.  House.  Nothing was good in this man's head.

My favorite story started off with so much hope, about how he built his house from the ground up to support him and his wife.  And then soon the world would welcome their child, William.  He would continue to work and work and provide for his family.  And just when the world was looking bright, the house began falling apart; the stairs would crumble each time someone took a step, and the neighbors began complaining about the disgusting state of their landscape.  Then, one day the front door fell over the hinge when his wife walked in and the two had a horrible fight.  The son, at this point apparently seventeen, could not stand the arguing and fled the scene, coincidentally through the broken door.  Now the man was incredibly disappointed that his son no longer wanted to be part of the family and became incredibly depressed.  His wife, also unable to cope with this disappearance, began to have more arguments with the man about anything they could think of: the trash, the finances, cleaning, fixing the roof, taking off his shoes.  These arguments kept arise for years and years to come, and explains to me why he was so good at arguing even to himself.  His house began to fall apart a little bit each more every year.  He was convinced it would be best to just build a new house.  But he never did.
I know I should not have listened in on this conversation to himself but after he started I was enthralled by his tale and could not wait to hear some positive ending; alas, that ending never came.  His wife died from a sudden heart attack.  His son came back once to show the man that he now was a grandfather, but after that meeting the man never saw his grandchild again.  And now the man is unable to work because of his physical condition.  He would just sit in his constantly in his favorite red and grey plaid chair and watch the television in his continually worsening house.

Beyond these stories that he would tell himself, sometimes the man would just sit and stare into blankness.  I was curious as to why sometimes he would do this and not say a word, as it was a sharp contrast to his normal arguing self.  I believed that the tree was sometimes telling him something and he was finally just sitting there listening.  Normally I am not into that stuff, but it seemed to fit this situation almost perfectly.  And that is where my story begins.

He was just sitting there, under the tree like always but he was at the point where he was not arguing but rather listening to something.  The sun was shining brightly behind some clouds, a slight breeze was blowing and no one was around him, except me behind the bush.  He looked around, almost as if someone told him something was around his body, grabbed something from the grass, although I could not see what he pulled out, and slowly lifted his body to stand.  He hugged the tree the entire time, although even I am unsure if it was for emotional support or physical.  He meandered slowly to a nearby bridge, and I stood behind my bush a good distance out, nervous as to what was happening.  I became increasingly aware of how high the bridge was above the river below him.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a standard six-sided die, which I assumed he picked up near the tree.  At this point though, I was not even questioning why there was a die near a tree, as he steadied himself on the ledge of the bridge.  I began to tremble, wondering if this would be the moment I should actually stand up and show myself, but fearing that if I did he would fall out of shear shock and surprise.  As the seconds passed like hours and my body now sweating with intense heart palpitations, the man spoke clearer than he ever had before, "Odd I jump forward, even I jump back."  He was facing the river, so the only thing that could mean was that if the number was odd, he would ultimately jump to his death.  If it were even, it seemed that he would live for a while.  Before he rolled he said, "Either way, I am not coming back to this tree."  My mind raced with the possibilities and what this man could possibly mean and still contemplated jumping out behind the bush to tackle him to safety.  My muscles were frozen.  The wind began to pick up.  The man dropped the die and watched it as it rolled from rock to rock.  As it began to slow down my heart began racing again.  The die stopped not on a numbered face but on its side, stuck between two numbers I could not see.  "One or four," the man said.  "Pick one." As he spoke, a gust of wind blew through the area rolling the die and breaking the odd and even tie.  When he was about to look at the number himself, I fainted.

She is

She is Van Gogh,
depressed and starving,
dying and broke,
brilliant and unrivaled.
Her vision is ahead of herself
The world slowly crawling
without knowledge of direction
Latching on to her like a small child
to her mother's hands
Blindly scraping her knees
on the cement she has painted.

She is Bach,
known for the wrong things,
unknown for her talent,
striving and pushing.
Her sound, a melodic lullaby,
calming and soothing the world,
hectic and bustling through,
without rhythm or uniqueness,
she attempts to sing
to those covering their ears
a song out of their range.

She is Poe,
dark and cynical,
pessimistic and morose,
methodical and revolutionary.
She smiles, this Annabel Lee,
with a heart so divine and pure,
that a world egocentric
fails to notice the timid words
that escape her trembling lips
and thinks of her as silent
and unfit for her own pages.

She is
an artist,
a composer,
a poet,
a woman
without fear
living in
anonymity

The Lion

I cannot defeat a lion
mane freshly washed and dried
with the organic soaps of aloe.
He stands there with pride
and power exuding from his stance alone.
He is king, and without crown or scepter in hand,
he owns a continent and I reside
in the shadows behind some giant
grey shield, for I cannot defeat him;
not with words nor swords
can I pierce his rugged skin
or persuade a peaceful grin.
His teeth already dripping with warm
red blood from my heart and
stained from those before mine.
I cannot defeat a master
in a territory he has dominated
for centuries, a skilled hunter
who creates his own desires only
to relieve boredom and then fulfills them
only to remain unsatisfied.
If I can coax it not to kill me,
then I will consider this a victory.

I sat

She walked in,
Ass jiggling from here to Milan,
Like Boom the room’s doom zoomed
and sat in the corner chair.
We stared, Impolitely and inconsiderately,
But she resumed consuming the gloomy room
in her chair, crash.
She, covered in splinters,
laughed heartily and heavily breathing,
Boom, cackle cackle, Boom Boom,
The floor shook, her ass cracked the linoleum.
We were confused,
The reasons why raced in our head,
Grab a broom; clean the room,
Boom Boom.
She sat. Her stench began to wallow,
wafted towards our direction,
the perfume of doom, oh the fume,
consumes us in our demise.
We stand, respectfully, walk to the door,
Boom,
Rattled floor, she follows,
We fling the door to freedom, and begin to jog,
Boom Boom.
Our feet fumbled from the vibrations.
I fell to the floor, Boom Boom,
I shuttered and looked up at her face,
But only saw my tomb,
Boom,
the tomb I assume would consume
My body and soul in Boom
One entire gulping
Boom
scream my mind doomed to be the groom
Boom of death,
I sat.

Spotlight

Before us lay darkness,

Like a moth to a flame we flutter

Helplessly into the direction of it

And dance melodically to persuade it

To entice it to dance with us

And flicker and grow 

To love us with the passion of itself

We fly dangerously close

Willing to burn our own wings

Blind ourselves with extreme brightness

Overheat with exhaustion 

To catch just the eye of it

Which we never would have noticed

Had there been no light in the darkness

And as soon as it shows itself

It extinguishes and disappears

And we forget it ever existed

Soledad

I had in my head the most powerful phrases and anecdotes to convince the world that I am getting screwed over.  In my head, it was just a pounding rhythm like rain across the hood of your car and the occasional thunder off in the distance and a brilliant flash of light.  It would have convinced you that I am getting screwed by the world.  And then as I began typing it, it seemed more like a cry for help than a persuasive argument.  It sounded like high pitched whines in a nursery with no melody, just bleeding ears and pain.  So I kept scratching the lines, picking the scabs of the paragraph and was left with a blank sheet.  Just a giant white box with nothing to fill it.  I thought to myself, well maybe then I am really not being screwed as much as I think.  Perhaps I just want to make sense of the little things with big explanations.  And then all I am left with is myself.  Solitude.

Impress

I know I do not have to impress you, and yet, for some reason, I have the strongest urge to prove myself.  I have enough confidence in myself that I do not need the affirmation, however, I am completely stuck on the idea that your compliments and words are what I need and that only you can sustain my happiness instead of having it slowly dwindle to depression.  I do not know why I think this.  I really have no idea.  But I am continually in this flux where you mean absolutely everything and absolutely nothing.  I am choking on the words "save" and "kill," but I am trying to say something while waiting for you to say anything.

The Culprit

He smiles,

a queer smile,

perhaps a smirk,

perhaps a warning,

and with words

he speaks,

daggers,

slashing,

crimson blood from

a fountain spewing,

a river red of hate,

dribbling from the lips,

already sanguine, to

caress the crystalline

eyes that cautiously

watch the chest

and his breath

from a smile

so unusual 

and yet all

familiar still

and turned

his silhouette

frozen dark

never to see

the victim.

Memories

I used to look up to him,
His towering stature overhanging
Like a canopy above me,
And I felt safe beneath him.
He was a giant with huge arms
and hands to grab mine,
pulling me like the string
on my toy boat, dragged on the carpet
and fumbling without gaining
my footing nor balance.
His eyes, opened wide and bright,
piercing through my pain
assuring me that my refuge
was here, invulnerable.
His legs, so long that, he would
leap with a brute strength
and delicate grace
to guard my small steps
and ensure I would not stumble.
My neck would ache from
constantly looking up to him...

But now time has punished him,
blood no longer rushing to his heart
and his eyes no more open
than a crack in the sidewalk.
His hands, so fragile to touch,
a tiny candle flame, flickering for life,
would burn and melt his skin,
With his arms now weak branches
unable to hold the weight of falling snow,
And his legs, too weary and used,
having walked a million miles before,
collapse into the quicksand consuming
the remnants of what used to be.

Haiku

Polos, shirts, ties, suits,

I cannot be bothered to

Be superficial.