nicmas97

I remember sitting in silence for a while, Expecting the breakdown Of tears, anger; the sweet release, but nothing came, not even a message from the universe screaming for hope and love, just the silence. And like the caged bird I pecked in a frenzy Against the gilded bars To waste some more time, commanding someone’s attention enough to let me peck on some seeds instead. Like the suburban bee I tried milking honey From a concrete box To waste some more time, Commanding someone’s attention Enough to squash me out of fear. But the silence screams louder than the resounding ding of the gilded bars, than the stifling connectedness of concrete walls, the silence screams.

Okay so I...uh...looked, I looked at the sun's rays gently embracing the shadow of the building through a veneer of transparent curtain, and I was sort of waiting, waiting for the sun to be completely gone because it was setting opposite to the building I was seeing. And I turned to look at the person in my arms on the bed for a bit I would call it a distraction but it wasn't really, was it? I looked back at the building and the sun was gone and it's hard to describe what I felt then, or it's hard for me to understand it anyway. Some part said that I didn't give the sun the respect it was owed because I looked away when it was setting - if I started by paying attention I should've continued. A gentler part said that the person was way more important, that even though she was sleeping and couldn't see me looking at her she could feel the look. You know how you sometimes feel someone looking at you? Sort of like a magnet pulling you to look in the same direction. Like

I'd say it's just about that time, again. To breathe that exasperated sigh and realise, that these were not moments of genuine human interaction, but the euphoric five seconds, that dogs have to be happy about each other's presence. I'd say it's just about the time, to get bored of each other, again. Time to realise how fruitless and empty the words we told each other were, time for the change of heart, the contradiction, end of the line. Time for the oncoming waves to crush against the sullen shoreline and define the borderline between how I thought we know and the commencement of our knowing.

I own minute memories that are strange to describe; A car salesman a bit younger than me, sold a bad car by saying 'Rusty means free'. An older guy once beat me at pool, made out with his girlfriend and called me a tool. In parallel with the resolution not to litter anymore, the cigarette I'd finished smoking slipped onto the floor. The rust never freed me, and I have been screwed with plenty, and hundreds of cigarettes followed that one. And distorted experience serves for quaint rationalisations.

We talked very often, but I always felt that you saw more than you listened. It is unsettling, to speak and have an intent green stare as reciprocation. As a soul burdened with the affliction of feeling that most times it should not talk, the intent forest stare invited me to think of the possibility, that silence would be far more beneficial; that the physical should recoil, and leave way for the soulful to communicate, and that was best done with seeing not talking. So, seeing not talking, we spoke with spontaneous smiles, forest green melting into hazel, nasal flares, total appraisal.

Let her cry, She's lucky that she can cry, I haven't gotten there yet. It is irritating to even see you wipe the tears off her face. I'm not even thinking about it. I'm only thinking about how I need to shave, I need to go back to work, I need to feed the dog, brush my teeth, go to bed. My tears are frozen, somewhere deep. You can cry because you didn't see her everyday you haven't been stripped of everything, not like I have. My tears are stuck, I will probably shed them, in my sleep. At least she won't have to worry because, I've wet the pillow with tears again, and she won't have to put on the smile, for both of us, I never could put one on for myself. I'll let you cry. You're lucky you still can.

The pit is all engulfing. Blood red tendrils flow from side to side. Like in a spider web, all of experience's recesses find themselves stored without organisation. The walls glow with an ebbing orange, not of dying fire, but of distant, powerful explosions, destruction and wreckage. The tendrils vibrate and scream a calming melody. So when you inquire, as to the contents of my soul, know that it's hell, and that you're part of it.

Be gentle with us? Will you? I've convinced myself that I've defined and carried out Good and so am deserving of, something gentle. I'm sure the others feel the same. We've caused no harm, please be gentle. No one told us, that life is a rental.

Loss foments reflection; an inward flowing spiral breeding focus, and deception. Oftentimes we are out of our depth; can't really make sense of our trauma. What's trauma if not crying without apparent cause? If not staring without seeing? Loss limits selection; blurs direction.

He sighed, as he looked at the blank sheet of paper before him and fiddled with his pen. He had a lot to say and he didn’t know where to start. He didn’t even know if he wanted to start. He hadn’t added anything to it for… one month… More. The last … ‘entry’ dated back to the end of March. Then April came and with it… Everything. Donny had tried to read what he had written back in March. It was like reading the writing of a stranger. Someone who knew things were wrong, but hoped he’d find a way to set them right and still managed to find some upside to his situation. How stupid he had been. He hadn’t been able to read even the first page to the end. It was plain rubbish. And not even honest rubbish at that. He had kept so many things out… He turned his head away from the table. He was sick of staring at an empty page. From where he was, he could see the tall wisteria tree in the center of the courtyard, a small breeze moving its branches heavy with flowers. He logged on the AOL

Come with me up to the balcony stare out on the desert fair and turn your attention to the towers that stand over us all. These beautiful structures of nature may they never fall have been for us since ages past no one really knows how they came to be one thing for sure they have left a mark on our history at least for me. For you see these towers marked the beginning of the end of my mother's history and the start of mine so to speak. Even still I can't help but feel a tad sad every time I visit there which I often do for I can't help but wonder if my father never took her there if she wouldn't have left me before I reached independency. Of course I shouldn't be bitter it's not like they had a choice in the matter for as my father loved to say there some points that can not be changed no matter how much we wished them so that's the curse of the timelords some would say. But I don't hold it against the towers of old for how are they to control what goes on above or below let

A good guitarist should have The precision of classical The feel of blues The theory of jazz And the creativity of metal A good guitarist should feel Like eating and sleeping are chores And lessons are all to be savored Like a well-cooked meal Or a lie-down after a hard day Or just as hard work without the sugar-coating But which still feels utterly worth it As you learn all the skills To write songs A good guitarist yearns to understand The unique language of their instrument Finding beauty in nuanced scale-runs And controlled vibrato For example A good guitarist should also Be someone who is willing to not listen To guidelines on how to be a good guitarist

If one ripple of water can affect a whole stream, One person's words can change the waves of life. So sit on the ground lay your head back and became warm by the sun's beams, yet remember actions can cut like a knife I'm sorry to wake you from this lovely dream human nature has been depriving.

It’s just a muscle. Without it we cannot live For the body needs the flow of blood. What does it have to do with love? It releases no chemicals, It doesn’t affect the brain, It has nothing to do with mating. The heart just pumps faster When one feels attraction or arousal. But it does the same When one feels scared or excited. Who decided the heart Has anything to do with love? Humans will never really know, But it is fun to think it so.

I would like to hold all of the moon in my hand and more I would like to rest the entire world in my hand and in my arms you; The weight I can feel on my chest is unlike any gravity any body in the Universe could produce. In the throes of a dying star pulsating its light across the entirety of space time and in that moment lands perfectly into your eyes, could you come up with human words to describe a million Sun masses, a billion light years away, not fading; eviscerating in a cold expanse. Like the cosmic body beneath me planting me against the ground like a seed with its entirety, every time I take a step I steal from it a small part, and take it with me until I step again. I would like to lift you off your feet, in my arms; against the gravity of the entire planet beneath you, with all I have steal you from the world. Like the moon tries to steal the oceans every day— and succeed. On the moon there is a tide too, it exists in the very body itself. Under the immense pull

Racism reigns, A curse upon man, Hatred continues

I'll always be in the dark While you watch me try to feel my way through all the missing pieces