Stories Poems Artwork Quizzes

Tests & Quizzes

Social

Stories

Art

Poems

Comedy

Email:
Password:
New User Or

Created By

numbbbb0z

Rate this Story

+7

Embed

<div style="border:1px #ccc solid; background-image:url('/images/ray.gif'); font-family:arial; width:200px; padding:5px;"><center><div style="font-size:20px;"><a href="/story/numbbbb0z/32606">hbhgfh</a></div><table><tr><td width="50"><div style="color:#2CC362; font-size:15px; padding-top:4px; background-image:url('/images/profratebg.gif'); background-repeat:no-repeat; width:44px; height:26px; text-align:center; font-weight:bold; vertical-align:middle; padding-top:8px; padding-left:1px; " valign="top">7</div></td><td><div style="height:100px;width:100px; padding-top:9px; background-repeat:no-repeat; background-image:url(/images/storyCover.png);"><a href="/story/numbbbb0z/32606"><div style="margin-left:9px; __padding:0px; height:90px; width:70px; background-repeat:no-repeat; background-image:url('http://www.testriffic.com/storyfiles/32606.jpg');"></div></a></div></td></tr></table></center></div>

+ 7	hbhgfh
+ 5	Taco Mik - Excerpt
+ 3	Excerpt from YOTS
+ 4	My Nutty Friend Meg
+ 5	In The Universal Mind (preview)
+ 3	Excerpt - Disc. w/ Mad Jamon
+ 3	Journal entrie's from 2006
+ 3	The Cardboard Box (chapter two)
+ 5	The Cardboard Box
+ 4	Ode to An Angel
+ 3	March Foorth
+ 9	She said, "Yes! Yes! Yes!"
+ 6	March Theerd
+ 3	Changes'a Many
+ 1	The Dharma Bums
+ 2	25 Bullshit Questions.
+ 3	Work in Progress
+ 2	An Easy Ride (2)
+ 3	An Easy Ride (1)
+ 2	Eradicated

Being a misunderstood and often ignored Libra, the most romantic and empathy-shared of the Zodiac, always on the search for the mate, the soul mate, the perfect complete match - was often lonely during the cold, dark, untouched years during the grey-scaled skies of Winter two-thousand five.  It was March and the spring equinox was coming, going, travelling here and packing up to leave town the very next day - emotions as my weather forcasts is, "Weather changes moods" as the saying went, came and fled before you could prove it wrong. My life in those months were long, droning, lonely as the lone one could be, I was down and out of it - contemplating suicide nearly every day as the cold moonm rose high and laughed me in the face with its wide-eyed grin and irritating bowel syndrome of shining smiles, malevolently teasing you from afar. Sleep-filled night went the dreams, I tired of the reality and slept away the night that the city tries to hide and deny. Waking up in the late morning just before noon was a regular schedule as I had nothing to do to occupy my days - my lonely, bound-filled days filled with such joy and excitement in every sense of the trite and meaningless. But oh, jobs were out of the question - I did't have any skills and no focus to learn any skills, indeed I; depressed, suicidal, lonely, angsty, and most of all untrusting of the people in my surroundings. On one cold March morning I had walked down to the steps with a Nirvana album and a journal and wrote several poems/lyrics. It's all I could ever do to provide the world with anything with any meaning from my being and existence. I figured if I were to die: I should atleast leave something of worth for whoever reads my journals and let my family know what a lonely, frightened, nearly-crying person I was.

 Being a natural loner in a world full of friends, good times, wonderful memories and so many joyous laughs proved to be too upstanding to bear - yet I continued through the days and nights as they coule wear on and be worn out.  Came the pages and journals written of those times, those times were the best accounts of my life as it was who I was before my life changed for better or for worse - depending on whom you ask and whatever friends I had gatehred who had stickeen around to figure me out - whatever the case was or is in the times of the individual finding themselves: Tales of wisdom, tales of endless searching for the dreams and aspirations -- I came down the rivers and oceans to view what I knew.

 I could spend all my time thinking about pasted memories - and the life I used to lived.
 And the when that was led.
 And the one that was two.
 I bet it's better to spend time with her, thinking about future memories,
 and the great life we'll led.
 New memories to become wishes,
 I know it's hard to believe,
 I love the girl whose name rhymes with
 preppy.

 That name-rhyming-girl-with-preppy's name was Serenity and she was a friend I had fallen in love with - pretty much the only female friend I've ever had at that time - before my life completely changed forever, for worse and never, but more about that later.
 I had fallen in love with her and her [description], but she had a boyfriend and saw me as a friend - which naturally lead me to a path worse than ever, alone, oh so alone in the world full of love and life. This is not a boy-meets-girl book. This is not a cheesy teen romance novel or film where the boy gets the girl at the end of it. This is not an angst-filled sappy depressing lost love novel. The tellings of a true story in the midst of a male clueing in the pieces so - I deemed the girl, my only friend, a complete neccessity in solving the puzzle of my life - dreaming about her skin - thinking about her day and night - feeling the scent of her lips on mine -- holding her hand smiling, rounding about town wanderingly excited ---- aaaah -- but memories, fantasies, and day dreams out of the real world that some find cold, cruel, and hopeless. During those winter nights, I had also found the world that way.

 Serenity and I met in an internet cafe for poets and musicians and any other artist with something to say to the audience of mostly half-stoned, mellowed out tea-swilling artists trying to make a living. I was working on my first novel at the time, which was about the currences of falling in love and having your heartbroken, being forced to move on to the next relationship and falling in love again - it's a vicious cycle, and I eventually came to the conclusion that love was just waiting to be hurt. The section I was writing in was about a girl named Ember whom I had not seen for two months while I thought of her, dreamt of her, fantasized and wished to hold her again - and when she got back into town, she had a boyfriend - oh how devastated I was, I was heartbroken, then she flashed her smile of all smiles - and I confessed everything to her. From every thought I've had about her to every dream to every fantasy just wishing to hold her, when I mentioned about biting her lip, she let out a heaving sigh and stated that she loved it when she had her lips bitten - and without warning I had placed my lips to hers and gently bit her lips. licking her lips and tasting her taste, scenting her scent and losing myself in the midst of time beneath her heart.
 While I was writing about my experience with Ember in my novel, Serenity had just noticed my writing and was curious about the person who sits in the cafe day after day, drinking coffee after coffee, listening and swaying to the tune of the band on stage - and not speaking to anyone except for occasionally walking up on stage to recite a poem about whatever was running through my mind.
 "Hm," I thought, "usually the 'quiet silent' type is intimidating."
 She introduced herself as such and sat herself down at my table, smiling and taking a swig of her lovely lemon [brand] tea. Oblivious to any rumour's that may have started about me and what it is the silent mute thinks, says about to himself through the days.
 She asked about my writing and I cautiously, not being able trust anyone too easily - had mumbled, "Oh, just random thoughts and feelings; emotions I have on a daily basis."

 We talked and talked and talked and she gave me her phone number. MOVING ON. Ragonasha said it was good without it.

[After we meet, she's scared of his obsession with her and she leaves him.]

[A few hours later, he goes to the pharmacy and buys a bottle of drugs and overdoses.]

[Two days later, he wakes up in the hospital.]

[A week later, he receives a letter from Serenity "Aly's letter"]

[3 weeks later he's discharged (include the adventures? Andrea..The nurse and friend?..Earl? Home away from home, being able to go outside anytime you like, for a walk around the block, by that time it was mid-spring and the streets were beautiful. Include seeing a mentally sick girl get out of the shower naked?  My friend Andrea who at the time was 18, had given me a book the day before was due to be discharged. "Don't Sweat The Small Stuff: For Teens."]

 Out of the hospital and I sat in my room with a newly opened notebook full of journals and I contemplated birth -- You know, birth -- Birth of an object waiting to be murdered inside the meals of a home-cooked supper, boil for 20 minutes, add in extra ingredients, and stir until a thick white slab of gel resonates along the surface -- scoop this out, place in a mug with lemon juice, and ingest -- duration is an hour or two with minds walking the corner edges of a paper-book. With relaxation a right frame of mind was needed and I was certainly no mind in the right frame of during those few precious hours that anybody knows as time slows is a passing hours as minutes, intidimating clocks - laughing you in the face. With nothing but time to waste I read through -- skimmed as they taught you in elementary school (who has time for that, anyways? Mindless children ignoring their lessons and the one's who pay attention are saluting higher authorities. Psht. So enters the normal cycle of teenage rebellion) -- and through old journals from the hospital visit I wrote while they stuffed my face with Paxil while hesitantly eating some fine-thin ham and potatoes. Canadian hospital food is rather tasty. 'Love Street' played on the stereo from the 'Waiting For The Sun' CD by The Doors - The Doors of Perception - break on through to the other reality, the other forms, other surreal beings of living creatures sucking the oxygen out of themselves and their reality in an adventure of no realities, no existences, no deaths - lifes - and forgetting all of what was, could be, would be, should be and will be in the short seconds I had scribbled mad, furious as a secret-holder carrying a key from a so-trusting individual of a Higher Plains (reference to God?) of Morality and Righteous Breath.
 "Which I'm trying to reach" I said to myself as this reality needed to be accepted by my otherwise delirious and severely-paranoid frame of state I was trying to escape from - More MORE MORE I needed more as the thirty-minute mark of the minute hand passed on the clock. "Fuck." Too slow, time's too slow too slow too slow SPEED IT UP AND GET THIS TRIP ON THE ROAD! I jotted down my thoughts

 [thoughts from draft cards].

 For the wildest times and weeks since before this event I had always wanted to create scriptures and manuals on my formed opinion of the way to live, think, eat, breathe, die, and being born again - a sense of Religion and casted my Bible onto the world - Insane sense of God paranelia had prevented always the nights scribbled signatures -- signatures and documents of my being that was once walked this entire Earth in a mental frame of consciousness tapped, atleast I thought: I had no clue, this was all for kicks and joys and hoots and DAMN'S be the Skies ahead calling on -- With time to spare, waste, change, inflate, turn around a hijack back into socket -- I began scribbling effortless mindless drabble on the page - having to tap into the subconscious mind and write without thought or concern for where thoughts may lead and roll, roll, roll with the finger and hope your mind catches up with the speed intensittiy of the frontal lobe pounding away at the page or keyboard before you, I had inddeed at that time let loose my mind and noted my eventual formations of disciples, headed pastors, and a world full of religion - the world of self inside each individual that not-a-Bud-Damn person will ever feel:
 
 Good is good enough is? What is what had I written? No time no concern for that which is already done in the past! The second age is already yesterday in the scream of scheme's and plotter-blogs and acid blotter's running across the game. On forth on forth is all you could do in a time like this, precious is few and moments are rare without proper structure, enoightenmentm border lesson is the first assignment:

"What a load of Kevin Smith's shit" echoed the bathroom in the far corner just two rooms down from my room, a grombling "r-u-u-u-r memoe'd" its instructions to make an aquaontance at once with this most pleasurable visitor in our home - The highest of thrones of our Majesty! Our kingdoms! Oh joy is the pleasant visit!
 "The future's uncertain and the end is always near, drop the curtains and come on here."
  I followed the voices into the hallway and into the bathroom where His Royal Majesty, Ragonasha - King of The Toilet greeted me with a fecal-mattered tongue flailing and a gurgling, dripping ooze rang from its lid onto the floor where puddles of mucus, blood, puke and other bodily remains lay collecting flies.
 " I will deliver you from your slavery ways of conformity against the personal levels of society."
 I stood there puzzled, looking dazed and trying to keep my balance in the room that kept swaying like the ocean river on a freight, and why can't I speak bird? Wingspans..Religion! Is this..THIS IS THE PROPHET! THE SAVIOUR! I knew it. I knew it. Sooner or later good things happen when you wait.
 "I want you to goto cat county 1. THING LIKE WINGSPAN OF BIRDS."
 The book?
 "The book of cat county" he whispered and groaned the thunderous storms ahead, rain oozing a glob from the ceilings. "Drink," he coo'd, "you'll need your strength and courage to stand against those who stare. BE THE SPECTACLE WHICH EVERYONE OBSERVES AND CATCALLS AN HOURLY BASIS BY DAY."
 By Buddha he was right! By Allah he was right! By Dog he was right! He, Lord Of The Toilet, Ragonasha!

 
 He transformed back into an inanimate object and the room smelt of flowers, rosebuds and a good week's worth of OHH YEAH, A'GET DOWN HERE's long before I washed my hands - have to keep those germs clean, germfree - don't want to infect the household America and it's pussy-whipped "must be clean" attitude while Canada and America's hospitals are infected by the dozens with the worst flu's and bacteria's, outbreaks of death caused by germs you could not prepare for - while the same doctors and nurses smoke 2 cigarettes each on their breaks.


  Let's leave some journals and pack some journals, cigarettes, clothes, Doors CD's, this trip this trip out of this country sought after PLANS ARE BEING MADE TO ACTION - Yes yes yes. "It's best not to tell anyone" I thought to myself, "they'd just worry and wouldn't let me pursue my path of freedom" -- It was nine o clock PM and the mother of the house was sleeping and the brother of the house was out of the town fucking his friends and getting drunk and listening to screamo in the car.
 "Cat county calls. I must!"

 I then remembered I scribbled the number of an old friend from years ago in a journal, Taco Mik. Last time we spoke was a time of speaking as he shared his love of playing guitar, going to the hills by his country and getting high, connecting to the birds and sweating underneath the sun. A spiritualist and deep-thought sentimentals, Taco had the street smarts of the wise guys and the hip-rolling swiftness of a blues musician looking for that unfound dignity, that invisible speck of inner consciousness at the center of the circle in the sky.
 Dial. Dial. Beepbaboop. R-i-i-n-n-n-g-g-g-i-n-g-i-n-g-ing "Ha-ha-a-a-h-a-h-a!" he hystericalled into the phone, "Kurt! Sup ni-i-i-g-a!"
 Georgian rappers are always funny.
 "TACO MIK! GET UP HERE AT ONCE! We have to goto cat county!"
 As soon as I said that I thought, "fuck." Was he supposed to know that? You can't tell just anyone anything. You have to be able to trust them first. I hadn't talked with Taco for well over six months and the last time I saw him I just abandoned him. I wonder how he's feeling about that. Cat county? The sheriff should know.
 "Aw, d-u-u-u-d-e!" he crept and sighed out the 'dude' in a toying manner, "I have to thank you, I'll always trust you, thank you, trust you."
 Ever think something and not realize you were speaking? Normal people do that. Why do normal people exist. We'll have to exterminate them.
 "Hehehehe." he chuckled and chuckled for a good few minutes, and by that point Lucifarian had kicked in at the peak of my veins and I was standing there, listening, unaware of my existence or the fact my tongue was hanging out, dry as a woman's [Explicitive] in the desert and swaying from left to right slightly, fixated on an invisible speck of inner consciousness at the center of the circle in the wall.
"I feel like I'm dieing" he said with a chuckle hidden inside a worried strumbling tone -- I could tell he was trying to hold the phone and make the mattress he was laying on his own: "What's the most fucked up you've been?"
 I thought and I think I thought and muttered a drug named Anastasia that was the highest I've ever been on any drug, sniffing that drug was the equivalent to bunjie jumping and riding the clouds of the sky simeltaneously while relaxed and wrapped up inside the blankets/comforters of your mattress, losing sense of time as the hours pass by and you're welcomed inside a Kingdom where you feel like you're the only being on Earth.
 "HAY" screamed Taco with a nasally schriek and I was shocked out of subconsciousness that always happens. All sinners and saints is hell in the living room. Who was that voice in my ear? WHERE WAS IT COMING FROM!?
 "TACO!" I howled, "we have to goto cat county!"
 "What is cat county, really?"
 This poor Georgian good  boy didn't know cat county? CAT COUNTY?! "LIFE AIN'T A MOVIE, BOY! We need experience! Ingestion! Swallow! Shag and swag! By day! By night! REMEMBERANCE!"
 He laughed a laugh in a cooly wavely manner and I told him Ragonasha wanted me to call him to help me find personal freedom and spiritual enlightenment as the greatest human being on Earth - A deeper serenity of life and moving on from city to mental city inside the drones of the confusing and it's the nature of Life's game, Life - that evil sonufa curse and Holiest of Holy restrains from keeping people, yes the people of categories by two's.
 "I'm off [DXM], man, I have this friend that can really get ANYTHING I want," he said in a half-state low drowel as I nodded my head in agreement -- "Who's your Canadian br-o-o-o-t-h-e-r?"
 In this life you make all the brother's and fine sister's you can get. In this house, your friend is your own.
 "Exactly, why not take a ride?" He chuckled and I tried to hear the voices inside his head, DEAR GOD?! ALREADY!? "I have to pack!" I hung up the phone after we made plans and dug through my closet, dear God IT'S SPRING and I don't have the right clothes. I looked at the clothes I was wearing.
 "This is enough."

 But that'd be awhile, Taco wasn't due for atleast a week which left just enough time of preparation, endurance and practice. "Have to settle the mind" just as with anything prior to any trip. I rested my physical being on the mattress and set "Riders on The Storm" by The Doors on the stereo - Listened to Sympathy For The Devil for 2 days straight, it was the only song that made sense that could orbit around the universe at once on one gigantic speaker in every single cell in the air and still contain the rumbling of the ground and soothe it.
 'Riders on the storm,'
 Walking through the wilderness.
 'Riders on the storm,'
 What had any of it ever meant?
 'Into this house we're born,'
 Humans and existence, made as subjects.
 'Into this world we're thrown,'
 And we destroy it minute by minute.
 'Like a dog without a bone, and an
 actor out  on loan,'
 The breath of humans getting by.
 'Riders on the storm.'
 Riding the snake to the end of time.

 Well was the song over, time wasted thinking, "You are about to die tonight." Which was true, every minute, every second, every hour - someone though you may or may not know had passed away whilst one of the other billion single-serving individuals in this life were thinking whtever thought it is to think -- With this in mind, I then opened up a brand-flankin' new Native American journal gift I had recieived for Christmas several months ago, it carried Native American quotes from all different cultures across North America, some of which had justified my paranoia fears and kept me from acknowledging, living, fulfilling my desires as the true personal p[erson I knew I was yet was afraid to show, at that time, anyway -- However I didn't know how soon the person inside, the inner-Kurt would flail and roam between the universal skies in the name of Earth kingdom for the spectacles and observants to observant, you want a magical act? How often had I pondered, cried, laying heartbroken and miserable for the touch of a woman I could trust, a woman to love, the woman that was so dreamt of for so many months -- The woman of a love I dreamt for, contemplating taking my own life away without so called love -- However could I trust such a love, let alone letting alone family -- To be so close to my heart and allow myself to surrender my heart below her?

 Such a question to be answered, little had I known - little had I known how much of a change one night shall make, had I known - would I still have taken the same course? Ride the same street? Think the same thoughts, and be the same person I was? Why wonder on such meaningless shit you cannot change?
 The next song on the 'L.A Woman' album was 'Orange County Suite', a ballad most melancholy, wistful, and peering into the soul of a narrator strucken by the most heart-seething pain: Love of a woman and love of a woman lost. That's it. I know. I KNOW I KNOW!
 I had known and leapt out of bed to the typewriter, writing my thoughts -- this song sprung memories of Jim Morrison's famous 'An American Prayer' spoken-word poetry, and I had begun writing one of my most favorite pieces of writing, yes yes yes yes --- No matter -- No matter - alls it's favorites in the end -- let's meet the child, shall we?

"Are we alive by the voice we speak, the laugh we bring, the thoughts we think, of the words we conform and construe: Faux and truth? I've never spoken aloud the intelligence compared to written words.
Those in mind shall agree.'

 Yes, yes, wait - is that enough? People walking, walking, following a schedule..Hmm..

"Do you walk the streets with list in hand? 'I'll do this, I'll do that, later, for now I must walk the streets and make other plans.'" It needs something else, I like it, but it needs something else, what does it need..Let's..Wait.."Plans of riffs, plans of rafts, tamer, for you push on and on until you sail to nothing.
Those behind know empathy."

 That's it! That's it! That's it, yes it's all coming clearly, now.  Oh dear god, my last love, if this is my last piece of writing, to know of my previous love, Serenity..
 "Take my hand and I'll show you rivers, we'll crawl on our knees over mountains, the very first mountain I wish to conquer lays not but an hour south of here. The birth of a Kingdom, with a Prince and Princess awaiting their fate."

She had fallen in love with another boy..I think I should, yes yes yes...

"Mother and Father; King and Queen - Wed our beloved celebration to be.
Those lives will sleep."

 By the time that last paragraph was written I had completely stopped thinking all together and let the words speak for themselves, letting them type where they may, "Impressive show, darkened glow, itching the scratch, utter moment of distraction from the wall that speaks. It is saying, 'Here is your road. There is your end. Soon; connect'. In the good old days I'd sigh and cry, why and why, why...And...Why..
Those trying are closing.

  'Remember my words,' said The President of the United Galaxies to the Twenty-One, "remember my joy, hold high your memories of the theatre's, cinemas, and soundtracks. A baby born, raised; brought. I want my only son frightened, fearful, and only in his acceptance of consciousness, self, and being will he gu'i free."
Those sly will hear me.

 Prescribe, detox, subscribe and flip-through, like a Calendar or Leap year. Road, road, where will you show me the way of time? Alive, he lied. Wash out with soap and mud, thrown students in and taught lessons; learn to forget, legitimate and distraction. Perfect: Perfect, perfect, specimen.
Those whom de'ny are lieing.

Lost upon' dust'n creeks and plains, spilled air from a container marked "F-U-C-K" in windshield wiper fluid. Bury it deep, bury an' dig, fossils of the monsters from far ago. The last time you needed one was away. I am troubled immeasurably by your eye. I'm a spark, an idea, a formation of a single-second thought, and I'm coursing through your brain until...Not. Did you enjoy me for the millisecond I was stirring around, sound in your head; gently for you lay in bed?
That eye in fading.

 Marked graves and celebration, taking worth of what salvation. Expecting less than your deserved, one is to shove off the unheard. Ever of this life - always unprepared, riding off into the spot to see. From underneath rocks, ledges, pocket-books and semesters, revolving around the core at center stage. Million-dollar industries spoonfed chemical reactors and little-while misleading mindless tears and joy.
SALUD!
The shine is burning.

He lied on his open-mansion of homeroom and asylum, his roses of garden flowers and spread-out towers of cowards unable to coincide, divided, without realize of silent mind - neither did he, and he pushed away.
 With near-bent heads, a soft rest, a gentle bed next to a Motioner and Statue of Importance sprinkled last driplets of truth over his cheeks in manner and so, "Easy, soul, you are now home."

 Like a deflated tire on the highway. Never to be known. Wandering through the hopeless dreams, at night: Sailing the laughing sea. The view is far and wide, the forces are high and tall, her grin spands the entire mountain - and the clouds are like angels above. Her shoulders lead down like rivers and waterfalls.

See those skyscrapers of wood and life? Do you know I'm a living child of those parents? They call out to me in my dreams, asking to be saved.
Walking, walking, rivers and oceans vast and wide, torture society by day.
Words are quick, words be the walking stick of redundancy. That which already known, preformed and operated on man-made structure. Ch'e, yeah? Swept underneath the velvet floor and forgotten, oh - Can't submit?
 Nurse, clean-up on aisle 1971, bring an extra mop and a set of photographs. These stains are set for framing and decomposings. Sweet muse, little you, and memory.
Back then it was unique to be different;
back then the audience was aware;
back then - clean ups were simple and more confused;
all was accepted.

  Images upon images bask the rows of chairs, huddles and benches at lapped, an elapsed afternoon of wrapped secrecy. That day's over, and the one before us shields the red carpet to our valley-walks.
 It asked for a helping hand  and a walking cane, this old day wrinkled, aging, burning skin and its tangy scent burnt the nostril strands.
Come this way' Night said, ''I'll show you dust.'
We took the branch and were lead a tower of a light, broken and aiming towards the ceiling of our cardboard-sphere box.
From the corner, 'This is the dream you dreamt of,' a spy said, 'To the house of love, follow me, now.'

  Would you die for me? On this wall that's been torn and rebuilt, much like the ancient structures we've based our ideals on. Burning ideals to fade in the dawn, much of the Eternal reward had given the gift of a next door neighbor, 'Hello, welcome to the town!'
'Step out of the doorway, turn around, walk down the brazen path, and return whence you emerged from your Mother's womb.'
'Silver-strings and silvery springs, a hope from me to you.'
'I'm not very anything.'
I reached my hands into my pocket, sighing to the feet below, a guilt-trip of daytime night-walking with e'panded pupils and teachers, tear-drops and amazement, a new home - a being of one as it covered my mouth with it's hand and shhhh..

 'Enjoy my greatest strength and ending' it smiled through hoarse lips.

 Shed tears, returning fears overpowering doubt and sour relations of past, old friends returning with questions, questions, interviews and questions, 'what does it all mean?' I look away and walk out the door. Climbing upon my caravan, I look to the mountain I had once become a part of, and departed sweetly with acceptance -- capturing it's universal beauty in my mind one last time before I awake and walk the roads without.

 Upon the road I came towards a house with the lights off, and no one was home, much like the whole of America's intelligence. The street was silent with ecstasy, the wind-chill factor freezing and I; comfortable. "Freeze me to death."
'I need ice on my beard.'

 The faintest sound of wind echoed in my ear, knock knock knock..
 Not an answer of the house.
 'I would like to murder.' words said a loud from my breath, as I grabbed the words floating in the air and used so of breaking, shattering, CLANG of the glass hitting the sill to the snow.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
 As the lights are off and no one is home, much like America's intelligence, I stumbled over tables, knocked over chairs and lamps, trying to find the living room switch.
Click.
'Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, hah.'"

The 'L.A Woman' album had finished and I let it turn off automatically , thinking to myself about what I was doing. I'm a writer, see, a natural wordsman with the gifted talent of painting imagery for the widest mind to see.  And that wasn't enough for the world nor myself in this job-feeding, corporate money-burning existence we now call life. Passion, burnin'-fire, eccentric views of mystery, and thought-opening words didn't seem to be enough to fuel my lust for life, lust for adventure, deadly sin of getting about as much out of life as you can get in the short time we have here on this dieing Earth. It's all in the
NOW
NOW
NOW
with one step for the future. All's made to have  the best, the most successful, the most money-efficent and financial rewarding of the greatest jobs, workplaces, community services, the best for the individual can possibly be offered with his or hers abilities at whatever and however they decide to apply for the calling. AIN'T HAVE NO TIME TA BE WORRIED 'BOUT EVERY PAST YE CANNOT CHANGE, NOW!

 I thought about this and my stance on personal freedom. I didn't want to become one of the nine-to-five people who curse their jobs, feeling like they're dieing inside each week they sit in their cubicles, office, or smoke a cigarette outside in the short hour break they have. I was worried about becoming the exact type of person in society I was against and making a stand in protest. Naturally I began to wonder about my talents as a writer and what my amateur friends regarded by the highly praised original creative artist I am - compared to the editors and professional writers of the world would regard as horseshit or too outta there for clarity, while the entire universe needs a smack upside the head with originality which I provide daily, or so I's lead to believe.
 Being a Libra, it's in my natural blood to crave companionship, daydream about relationships with the signficant other I'd so call mine, and the ever-goin' lust for the soul-mate  to love as long as our souls are forever entwined...Then, without the hand of the one I've dreamt of -- I'd either make one of the two choices: Accept that I ain't havin' such a lucky chance and move on..or dwell on it -- Obsessing over it to the point where it controls my fears, phobias, personality and attitude towards this holy depressin' life.
   I'd gone with the former and been smilin' my way ever since, throwin' all and nearly any wild offbeat chicks out've the road with a simple, "Yeah, I want you" for about a day 'cause I'da known there's no chance in Heaven we were one, infinite, soul and heart connected so why not have abit've fun while we're at it?

 It suddenly dawned on me.
 I'm a flirtatious Libra.
 I'm a flirtatious Libra.
 I'm a flirtatious Libra and not havin' a flirtatious Aquarius (as in Astrology these two Zodiac signs are the most compatible for each other)
makes it an interesting obstacle to overcome not havin' the hand of the soft, romantic lover I so naturally desire by my bedside manner. When that's not found or recognized by the ones I've given half-of-my-lonesome-heart-to or the one or two females I've decided to write about isn't recognized or appreciated, the cold air seeps through my expression and so began a few sullen hours ponderin' the contemplative life that is.
The contemplative life that is.
The contemplative life that is one persons opinion dampens the toilet roll with only a few droplets, while several groups of drippings break through the fragile fabric that is the contemplative balance-seeking Libra that is I the October Fourth an' baby of the family. Baby of the family of three.
 Of three is what this October Fourth balance-seeking Libra seems to mean at all to any and one person of all that ever saw what I chose to show so that one day, somewhere out there in a far away place, one of 'em that I hold in high regards may one day see what I've shown, and ask for a rare chance to peer more into the October Fourth balance-seeking baby of the family of three and foolishly, selfishly, almost egotistically drown with admiration from the soul that is the Aquarius that I'm intent on discoverin' and handing my gentle, soft heart to in praise and appreciation for the Aquarius that is the soul mate I so yearningly desire with every ounce of tear, every shrout of love, happiness, and self that is this existence seen.
 Desire is always behind the reason, behind the cold reason at the back of the line ahead of the many sheets I sleep in, behind the many stale-colored clothes I wear so proudly, behind the thinly-cut green grass of joy and the blue skies of gloom, behind the red fury of energy consuming the balanced Scales of the Minute Snake countin' the final hours. Has life been lived when I'm readin' Kerouac and wonderin' what he went through an' how he went through life an unrecognized genius of his so-inspirational times of the centuries.
 'Hope that is someday I' lingers the backs of my mind in the cold, silver truth of it all - the shivering silver that I so detest in favour of the warm butterflies of spring, shimmering on the golden flowers in bloom. Like the old spirits now exhaled from life as our children of now look back on the past in wonder, awe, amazement and cherish the idols who have so built the paveways of mankinds and whomever and however we choose to live in this mysterious road we call our blue four-walled Cardboard Box.

 This four-walled Cardboard Box had flung time past my head as I realized I spent the last three hours writing away in that fictional non-fiction book about my thoughts, adventures, dreams, aspirations, and fears.
Time left the hour of this home,
and time shall be shocked into consciousness again.
 The moon outside was parted over our heads I saw, sticking my head out the window in the mid-March winter carnival of weather forcasts, storm syndromes, communal flooding in regions -- and orgasmic flurries of hail in other provinces. But here, in our small little town, is the tidal waves of the ocean for the winter snow. The chilling, wet, thin flakes of snow fall duly on the pavement, yards, and animal houses; a good six inches to a foot --- Only to be melted away as the tide of the ocean-shore rushes out, melted away beneath the pollution, sunrays, and gentle April rains well on their way.

 The blueish, purple, orange and mixtures of red clouds were forming around the moon now falling beneath the rush of trees westward; East blew the winds, morning ten below freezing; now memories and nostalgia reigned over my head. "Taco Mik, Mik of Tacos, such a long time since we last eye-shared, enhanced flair, of all seminars and mutual aquaintences, how felt you of my sudden need of your assistance?"
 As I stood in the window looking to the changing-coloured sky, worried if Taco had felt resentment towards me, I began pondering-slash-reflecting-slash-thinking about how it is exactly he and I met and where we had come to the spatula's in the road so lead our paths to this palace we reside in.


 It was the cool-collected streets of a frozen winter now melting - being born a - baby - of - the spring - summer- equinox - coming, into joy, and the, entire, way of the warm mother coming of a black night soon away - Walked through the building of the local, musician, artist and poet convention of open mic nights and artistic bars serving, liquors. On the entrance of the, smoke filled room that stank with sweat of, the hip-tide musicians pouring out their entire heart and what -said-soul-into-themselve-and-others, this is the baby, the generation 4, the Generation 5, and 6, and 7's all across the room, for our collective gatyherers so expressive and shunned into a room - where we're allowed by the so-called ex-weirdo's and formed conformities of tsociety during those times, it seems so long ago. Repression of the artistic soul, indeed it was as I can remember pouring my hatred, anger, and struggle through expressing my own voice - just as any child of the night that night times were trying, in them rooms of the gathered musicians, poets, writers, novelists, and general souls and persona's ointerested in seeing what the core of core's at the center of our circles were - see the see-men seeing each other in a seeing night of observation, understanding --- understanding it most is all we tried to do.
 On the center at the stage of it all, with all our ears pointed and I ordered a beer as the bartender half-gazedly - his mind was in another world - with his right brain taking over, as anyone's right-side of the brain been left when you're trying to tap into the unconsciousness as he almost spilt half my beer on the floor. No matter, in this room you've left yourself at the door and entered a new realm of yourself you hadn't even thought existed until you really closed your eyes, closed your nose, tongue, and touch and entered the sixth sense.
 On the center at the stage of it all, with all our ears pointed - Was a man known as Taco Mik, sitting on his stool - playing his black night, oooh moaning his words, speakjing his soul, fretting over the choruses and round-abouts moments of our babies in time - fingers licked and spun the tapping of the foot kept-in-time-beat-family-forgot-all left at the door. No mic, no, wisdom, no structures just two souls merged - no one in the room existed for Taco Mik, no universal being of the blink of an eye, a distant call of an ear, just a simple structure of time - running time INEXISTANT, as the night of the jouining senses, a man and his guitar, a mother anbd a  aby, a writer and a book,. a timer and a clock, a life and a God -- Is all Taco Mik and his guitar is all that were as it should be, as it was and as it would be as he crooned out his licks, struggling to lose his consciousness and restriction - the tense articulate-mass-murder-of-generational-input-from-society, one former man against a million in the struggle for what we humans once were - and his contributoon of music, gained, suprirotiry of self, gaining underswtanding, sense as the mirror unclassics since birth. I stood in wonder, awe dropped, I got up and walked to the front isle, ordered a liquor of pitcher beer, I called for a dear and made my way near to Taco Mik and his wear, sweat and tears dripped from his face, I saw him glance my way and made a cool face, itching his tongue and leapt from his place, in this moment of time and becoming phased. Fazed as the morning day - see- Taco with his eyes closed, marked his slowing down ato a finger-licking itch, critch, fret'a-fre'ta-re'ta re'''ta, cooing the room and my eyes to a slow-closed murmur with his feet, echoing us into a trance - the lader, see, of the whole way, be may as he were with the road walking the street - hand in hand to throw away from the bad, the troubled, and the tremble, and the way to see everything with closed eyes, keeping his light, holding a tune for the, of an entire, and working its toll to a slow, continuous wave of relaxations as the music filled the silent room, not a critter stirred, not a silent wavered, as with closed eyes we tempered the inner-us, this THIS was the whole --------------
 ---------
 ---------
 ---------
 Silence.
 ---------
 ---------
 ---------
 Even Mik.
 ---------
 ---------
 ---------
 Completely.
 ---------
 ---------
 - --------
 Silent.

 FInely tunred no notcies to the surrounding - a life of hear, hear, npoise and rush, flushed by the winds of the music - so called life of the teenagers and we in this generation - as the silent yearned wish of dreams, even then heard throughout more felt the sound of voice proper tfixed in sensation of your body, feeling, sevent h sense felt and heard but not the ear but tasted, tongued and seen, every eight body of self felt in the unconscious world that we were tapped into - but a silent, moment time , passing, soon, as the trip trip trip tript of his foot tapping lightly, in a monotoned timer of timer's on the hard-wood floors, "trip, tip, tip, tip" as the drumstick on the rim of a steel-edged snare drummmmmmmingkitt in the background, this man is his drummer - his guitarist- his bassist- his pianist, huis vocalist, his macrraamaba, his soilist and celloist and enginneer, conductor - alls a blues teen learning the life. All our moment rested on on on o n on his foot trippings tript tript-tript-tript- every other second slowly calmly resting waves of the audience on our soundrushes of ear and see and felt on the atmosphere on the tip of our tongue as he slower, slower....slo.....wer.........s-l-....o-.....-w-.........-e.........-r-..............-slo-

---------w-------er----------....until------his-----foot---stopped----tappping-

---and----the------entire-----room----stoood----saat---silent------admist-

------nirvana---------not----a------t-----i------c-----k----had-----made----

-a------sound-----------
 ---A moment ------ Until----
 Lighter lit his by the guitarist as the audience and crowd and all of us escaped from the trance he set us into- and he walked off stage and down to his seat in the front of the stage, we were momentraily gazed and stunned, realizing not what happened but clearly sense of what we knew before hand minutes had he played - the room applauded and coo'd - we'd all underrstood that he underoost that we understood what we had tapped into and we shared it with each other - that was what the times were trying to achieve for us, the understanding of breaking free and getting back into what we felt was our natural right being so-slaughtered by the mass societty of our generation, and we were getting angrier, angrier, more tenser, tenser as the night had droned pon and the days had fades. All we had were our words, not spoken word, not violent words, not protesting words or words of peace, not the words spoken with the fist or the words provoked with our minds but the word of the inidviduakl, the word felt, the word projected through claricaial visions burdened burried at the cupibnet iof the mind - a treasure, greatest treasure indeed and so a few artists had tried reachikng this, and this man Taco Mik this man had helped us discover it once again and so he smoked his cigarette at his table as the announcer asked if anybody else would like to participate and crow their words.

 I had smoked the last smoke of cigfarrete from my breath, last chug of last chugs from the glass of bottled beer and made my way to sthe stage and accept the offer, a crooning of poetry spoken-word until then made shy and restrictive of the consciousness self for the society and myself percieved vision had been distorted - blurred - made like a video game and canvas of this life - spoken hopes of overcoming, and I had only done so without trying, without attempting as the days had passed by - idly setting safe, content and weak with strucken overgrief with not being able to change a goddamn thing- thing of the turning my back of the thing in the past, see now I saw what needed to be done and I begged the higher structured of this life for a change, crying myself to sleep as I had in the hospital for being still alive, being the lonely -man I was ---- lonely as the lone one coukd be, with my lessons I had tried to kive myself and I had soon forgitten as it 3was more easier to just idle wit what was not unattainable and thought to only be a dream, laying scared awake at night and not wanting to facve the people in the eye, without a word spoken to them, without a thought thinking of being with them, joining crcles ; basic fears as life thought to be a television show ---- and with each session of these gatherings iff artustucak differences trying to retain a higher understanding of this life and meaning basic understructure and foundation --- I had only attempeted several times to read the words and this, Miko Taco Mik had given a new light, new breath structure inhalation of the senses and a betterrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr oaubted more refreshments, new fillings of the cupholders holding paint and ink b-bottles so the writers may write the speaks words of the silent voices and I one of them tonight as I took a page crumpled from my jeans pockets and read the words, read the words slently wityh breaths, a little afraid laid I - more stood like it was - rather, but read anyway:
 "Before the hill, mixed pure, infected poison - trails of every traveler lead in all directions,
 map searches and intuition gifts of the second kiss.
 Clear, soaked, all our salt sweetens their twisting road - murky brown liquid melts the sides,
 building Everest for those buried beneath this avalanche.
 Two Earths lay'a top one another for its inhabitants underneath the frozen tides lays warmer forms of
 nestled, compact, connected life of the hollowed glow bruised.
 Wisdom looks dead from below, curse or gift from numbing sound bringing a secret goosebumps around,
 can't you feel it, fool? Now day is done, time to live the melting sun."

 When all was finished and the last word sung with a melancholy feel - as the stone-structure of how I had felt at that time at that moiment priror before entering the poetry-barn had cadavaered my feeling immesnely, as the drescriptions and overbearing had felt the place needed to be. A male-sounding voice had screamed "FAGGOT!" from the far corner and I bowed with a maleveolent smile and creweed back, "SLAVE!" and walked off the stage to my table,m ordering another case aof beeer as the announcer announced, requesting for the next artist to use their words to prevoke a message - it had strucken me as odd that a fellow artist called my work faggotry the work of a homosexual. Had gthe general soceity of the terms in this life been dso detrirotratedddd that artists were now defaming each other's pride, joy, love, spirit and expression to catcalls and miseries? overempowering betters of others? What was the ideal times of the back our idols and dead-masters had built for us so we may be free as we please? To think without restriction? Our society was intelligently-challenged and couldn't think worth a goddamn unless the obvious-mystgery-thinking the thougghts the works that actually wequired more pecerption andd epth to understand rather than a simple,. obvious slap-in-the-face as many artists of that time had dominated in the mainstream - WE HAD TO CHANGE THIS BLATANT AND OBVIOUS WAYS and return dignity and originalitty to the world - we had tried to do at that time - and it made no sense to me how someone had dergagotred my existence and works with a flamaamtorry comment, and how what also made no sense was the objection against homosexuality, man loving man - woman loving woman - what is there to coinfused about this? Society was so sad and pathetic that a man loving another man and a man suckin' a man's dick and a woman eating a woman's cunt had been frowned upon --- Society and the general homophobia of the world had becomed so pathetic that it frowned against a man sticking his cock into another man's anus and had beaten, thrown, murdered, hanged, depised, spit on  and uselesslly insulted the act of a man ejaculating over another man's face - people can accept a dog fucking another dog's ass but cannot fathom or accept a man sucking off another man - even in the fcomfort of their own home - that's what was wrong in the world of America, the soccial-ydriven, unaccepting, closed-off to individuals, rare, despicable, racist, homophobist America druiven by greed-money, power and more power as enough power was not enpough for the gut-wrenching tumroils of the Higher Airchers driving their own citizens into the ground against each other against each other as they lived in corners of the room, living in fear which is exactly what they wanted of us - to live in fear to be ourselves, they didn't want us to accept ourselves, and we were secrelty beuilding together slowly within the decades, as the 609's generation had - as our parents and our grandparents had ------ it was our time and the only mainstreaM-Asusspectibel "terend" of the ages were the emo culture - surely futrthermore stealing poriginality as all the bands and artrists of that time gdominating the television and radio souneded exactly alike - no one did it for the culture, the music, the art, the pride in creating soimething original - and we made sure to change that ---- So in this room of barstools, poets, writers, speakers, painters, musicians and sculptures had I been deemed a faggot for accessing my cold- heart and making it spreadwide? I had not spoken of cutting, harming myself, hell, I didn't write of depression or suicide, not publically anyway-  and tyhere I was being deragortoried? Why? I lay confused and was running it back and fgorth through my head until Taco Mik had slipped over to my table and sat himself and his guitar down, resting on the table and ordering a nother beer - liughting another cigarette and he offered one, a Camel Frost - most delicious and relaxing.

 Taco took a drag from his cigarette, ushering "I like your words, man. You've got a good rhythm and portrayal of images, dude." This was shocking, the man of guitar -players i had just fallen victim to with words of music flowing through the room, digging my words? After a moment came I thanked him, "Thank'ya, I like the unspoken words of your music in bloom." He bowed his head - tellin' stories of bway back when he was just a kid not knowing anything but simple licks of playing along to the great songs in his CD player but a couple years ago, "I'm into blues, rock, and Spanish flamenco-type playin', man but I can't find anybody to play with."
 I stood shocked once more, nodding my head in agreement and satisfaction of two artists looking for their voice in the ways they know. I sat puzzled, asked "Out of the people in this place we have our musicians in the far corner digging themselves, the poets observing the subjects so crest, the writers thinking to themselves mingling with the painters thinking of ways to distort their own reality for a nice image in their mind and out of all these people you can't find anyone to play with?"
 "I know everyone - Everyone emphasized - and I can't find anyone" His words reflected off the table, shimmering off the beer mugs infront of us as I stood blankly staring at the floor as I had been known to do, thoroughly unaware of such. The first time I had dozed off in a lucid-memory and inner-oncsciousness was when I was a little tad younger of the lads and me dad was - he was driving me to school and I had suffice three to four hours of sleep or so. In the passenger seat I rested my head against the door-cushion armrest place and had opened my gaze to the passing fields rushing by on the fcold, rising sun-morning slowly fazing from my gast view as the yellow road on the wall rushed by our feet and our gaze. My Dad was staring ahead and was paying no attention as my mind wandered and I left blank, unaware of what was not or is -- all the time through moments and my physical existence unaware, until he screamed, shouted, violently and suddenly in my ear my name-- shocking me into our reality as I whipped my head and focused on the road ahead -- This earliest memory of lucid awaktion with open eyes is what I learned was one of the 'Steps' in a book titled "The Celestine Prophecy" by [author] which had helped me understand the occurances and 'coincidences' of my perception in life - introduced in my hands by Mother -- I'll discuss more of that later.
 GREEN LIGHT FOCUSING ON THE STREET DREAMS! WHAT TO DREAM THE DESIRES OF ALL WAKING UP IN THE MORNING!
 What had I just thought?
 Had I said anything?'
 Was I still staring at the floor?
 Had I said that?
 Did they hear me?
 Taco just kept smoking his cigarette and drinkijng out of his beer mug, "Yeah, don't know anyone worth a god damn playing right I say" and silence crept the room.
 "I can sing rather somewhat terribly but with a distinct howl of a sort've era-pre-1990 type"
 Had I thought that or thunk the thunk and said it? I must've said it for Taco nodded his head in agreement, "cool, man. I like that, we have to practice though. Why'ntcha go up there and sing?" He nodded to the stage, apparent I was in another reality - Or was I? What mental illness had I had that required my peers, or newfround strangers, to direct my assistance as if I were six? A child hood memory long forgotten of the playground children being murdered and scattered across the wild.
 "Yeah, man, sing that." He said cooly, unphased by my sudden mutters and rather indulged in my creativity, was muttering an artform or just the stereotype for all writers saying what they thought? One strep and stride closer - lets loose to the white line on the road. I stood up and chugged the last chugs of the beer mug - pointed my nose to the ceiling and "aaaaahhhh!"
   I took one step to the stage and hadn't realized there was a quiet, calm, sophisticated gal sitting at a piano, waiting for the right moment in time to play her forte and bring her words through the airwaves of the semi-crowded room, crooning a melancholy song, her eyes shut loosely - starting the song with a melody that strikes an instant FOCUS and silently brought you into a meditative state of reflection, helping your hand to find their way around the tides of the mind that make the images, the deep unconscious feeling residing and waiting around, dieing away as you fight what hurts the most -- She was taking long, deep, torrendous breaths before droning out her lyrics with a flick of the tongue:  "Piecing it together like that torn up photograph I never remember to throw away. Coloured in the lines but nothing worked out fine, seems I only coloured in with the grey."
She eased her words easily and played the keys effortlessly with such a comforting feeling in her bones, as if she were playing to the tune waiting to be expressed in the genuine way only she could, memsermizing the audience before her with a drawln breath and slight continuious prawves with sighs that faded each note to note to note until she licked her lips so slightly to rest, arching her back straightwards heightened her shoulders for the next stanza whilst her fingers pressed the keys creating a soft, melancholic, wishful sinful melodic -- reflectionative insights of what it meant to be unhibited, unrestrained, carefree and mindless against the mass with your own form and posture - even roomful of artists could understand -- Fear in the mirror watching, glancing back at the hand covering your soul, the heart found so dead in the now, the current mainstream broadcasting half-naked times when things were quick for a buck and no matter: WE had us and they had we while we had everyone around willing to listen an ear, shoulder a shrug and join in a howl, the sweet cooiling collective howl to the stars beggin' for a change, and right by be Buddha what a change in reflection and input from the distortion with a shrewd clear-cut phantasmic orgasm of calm neccessthic wordplay, pains of the individual guided with a friending delicate on each shoulder with all the notes and black-keys pressed as her head felt the tune and followed its way, left to right right to left and as if she were the only soul in existence.
 "I wish I could believe there was nothing that I could do to stop you leaving, this will do no good but it’s all that I can do too keep myself breathing"
 From her soft, pink thick lips came straightforward truth, a letter - with my head lowered I accepted her words of pain and felt myself being drawn in to her words, the comforted and vulnerable words of a girl struck by hurt and pain, her words were after my heart and felt through the entire room for all to see, all to hear and accept what it is inside them that they were running from. Her voice was broken and deep, captivating and lowering the room into a trance with her closed eyes, blowing her words and risking it all; singing to the person in her mind -- Letting us use her words to reflect on ourselves and the moment of time we too felt and were unable to show for the world.

"This used to mean so much to me. You couldn’t say what I was thinking. You're all that I've got - You're all that I've got - You're all that I've got - You're all that I've.. got."
    She sang and it felt like she was speaking only to me, only to I the lone individual for a second day-dreaming of laying beside in a bedside manner with her arms around my waist, her hands running up and down my back curves as I slippt my fingers loosely down and around, smudging, grasping our fine smooth-delight textures as one on her thighs. Dreams and sighs. What it meant to be dreamed of, to be loved and know it true - being and giving yourself to the only one for life you've sworn would have ever given themself to you. Oh how it meant, everything it meant and the times of when each and every one of us were - This girl had it, she exposed it and comforted her own broken wings and anyone in the room, her emotional and sensitive, fragile, emotionally soft and tender inner-self was all people saw, all people felt as they watched her with stunned eyes; her physical appearance wasn't the main focus anymore, no one had seen the girl on the outside, her almond-shaped eyes with light-thin eyeliner expanding her lashes and her soft rosy-cheeks contrasting her slightly pale, softly-thin structure, the way her face beamed with calmness, a face you felt safe when she looked at you and made you wonder how her smile shone, making you wonder how much her smile lighted up the room -- But there were no smiles tonight, not for this life, not for this light and this pianist crossing out memories in her mind.
 "You used to mean so much to me, every kiss with you was ecstasy. You're all that I've got - You're all that I've got - You're all that I've got - You're all that I've.. got."
    Halfway through the song as time slowed down to what were to be five minutes in though well two minutes had passed, I leaned in closer for a better observation of the images she portrayed in mind and echoed the tune silently in head from ear to ear, resonating and diggin' deeper as the blowing dweeper's allowed to go --- her words and lyrics with her whispered inwards-worked-outwards and forceful singing guiding my intuition and wrapping itself silk-side in its embraced as a woven-matted rose-papered wander so adored for the natural soul who makes words so clear, heart so lashed out and ready to strike with.
"I love everything about you but there is something that drives me insane, hate everything about you but you're the only one that ever kept me sane."
  One can only do to put self proper in place of another one's shoes as a natural flowing rhtymic array of reflection and seeing several different people in my eyes as I crowded beneath the terror, the horror of this girl, this poor girl's pains of the man who left her behind and she soaked her floor with tear-drops of misery and woesome sorrows -- I knew all too well of heartbreak and loneliness that had almost ended my own life; cowardice not in the least, but a sense of too great understanding for what is: Being exposed to the bare naked truth of what a horrible existence people as a general society have turned the world out to be, and it scared me -- It scared me like no other fear or imaginative demon creeping since childhood had scared my wits and bravery, rendering 'em shit-stuck and whining inside comforters and blankets underneath a moon-less night so many night's before as I wondered who I was, what I was meant to do in this life, if I would ever have a love again. My thoughts were silenced when she began singing the next words that I never wanted to end.
"Piecing it together like that old torn up photograph I never remember to throw away. Every part of me died when you gave up on me, yeah it was that very day. You used to mean everything to me -- I WISH you never knew me" the 'wish you never knew me' lashed out and like a snake bit the tongue of the person who caused her so much tears of sorrow and a lonely feeling, "I WISH you never" the final call, the final attack in the gentle way she wrapped up, the mili-tension in her voice kept up, wrapped up and set itself in order with such an undesirable feeling for anyone who's ever had the love, what person wouldn't care to lead her astray?

 When she finished I stood up and applauded enthralled and excited for her vulnerability and able to send a single being into a trance with a cultural setback of an inspired and vibrant expression, catcalling her skills as she left me seeking for more, more, more and I somehow wanted her to write a song about me -- This stranger I saw, this wonderful girl with her soul cut open for a peek chance, letting the men and woman glance, for just a second in an instant fallen moment, rising up the entire being of a scene, into the clouds high up deep over together in hand. I've always had a thing for female crooning vocalists slowing their words with a slight sentuoi

© 2008

Top Users | Contact Us | Privacy | Terms | Advertise | Disclaimer