Sunday, December 18, 2005

The way the world turns

Can I help the fact that I think he's beautiful? Can I help that every thought ends up with him? Can I help that I think I'm crazy? This is so much more than anything, than just something. I can't explain it, nor do I want to. All I know is, it'll never happen. All my dreams, all my realities are just thoughts, just whisps of something I could never grasp. Each one threatening to evaporate with each passing day. It's like reaching for the stars, hoping that you can just grab one and put it in a jar to keep you safe at night, but having the knowledge in the back of your mind that they are billions of miles away, and you'll never catch one. Even if you did you couldn't touch it. Knowledge is the path to nonexistence. I want to know, but try to tell me and I'll cover my ears and hum a song. I could make a thousand analogies to what this is, but a million wasted words that would be.

Sunday, October 9, 2005

My glass box is empty

The world doesn't shine today. The colors are dull. Nothing has vibrance like it used to. He stole the last bit of me I had left. It was battered, bruised, and bloody. I bandaged it the best I could, I put it in a glass box, hoping it would be okay. See, don't touch, but I let him. I let him poke and prod my neat little heart, hoping all the while he'd just hold it, silent and still. Like time had stopped. He played with my little treasure one too many times. He took it, but left the glass box. The box is so lonely now, with nothing to protect. The glass, it weeps, silently, so quietly. No one can hear my glass box. It weeps on the inside, open it up and the sorrowful tears will be heard by all. You can't open my glass box, for it is locked, and locked it will stay...

Sunday, August 21, 2005

The thought quite old fashioned...

My style so old. Yet I know that my words will affect like no other. Respect is such a lost practice, why has the world turned to this, false reality. Everything so material. No one sees the beauty in a light sunset, the way a butterfly floats through the air, the sheer beauty of the wind against your face on a breezy day. No beauty, no thought. Your minds are as closed as no one had hoped for all these years. I hope one day you look at yourself in disgust at all the things you've said, all the people you've hurt in past years. All for reasons that cannot be explained. Your excuses are worn, your morals so cliche`. When I look, I see beauty, I see love, I see gratitude, and gratefulness. When you look you see faint outlines of everything, all in the color of old stone, you see greed, and ignorance. Why all of this? One day all the best questions will be answered, for now all we have are vague excuses for what you've done, and it sickens me.