Until We Resurface Again

We will lack in fresh thoughts, we will dive and charge
We will seek and stumble, we will compare to eachother.
Have you found one another?
Can you hear empty thunder in the chest cavity?
Above her but not breathing, silent but still singing?
Have you found the place your heart goes?
Empty spaces and black holes?
Search for something while secrets grow
Untamed, unkind, not kindred but sickly vines.
But what's this? Love's kiss?
How passionate in such bliss, that we search for another
That we tear ourselves asunder
That our charred ashes still muster and bellow
Searching for that in the greatest depths
Which we will surely not find
Until we resurface again.

I have fallen beneath.
But I shall wade up to my shallow knees.
I hope you find a place to place that heart.

It's Like I'm Underwater

Come and dive under the waves with me.
Fill your lungs full on hope.
Live like one weightless.
In an endless sea of change.
In a garden made, arranged.
In these humble hands I've writ.
A story, but I regret.
That my room would not become a sea.
Those old dreams from my history.
Are water under my bridge.
An echo on what I did.
But I hold out on hopes.
They keep my humble heart a-float.
One day my words will strike home.
One day we will be more than a poem.

I left the room I had the dream in.
I forgot the real words.

I hope the one I lost will one day mean something to someone, because it has yet to cease meaning everything to me.

Darker Times

..often occupy my all-the-times.

Recent advice states that I won't be happy unless I'm miserable.
Guest commentary discussed that I have an affinity for the depressing.

Someone said, "I don't really try to have emotions, I just do."

Interesting theory.

A Short Story.(Morbid Version)
There was, one cold night, a small boy walking out in the woods.
The snow flurries kissed his brown knit cap, two years used.
His mitted hands, like two swolen fingers, gripped precariously a precious stone.
Not precious to you or I, but to a child upon finding, a treasure.

As he made his way through the dark, he began to feel afraid that he had become lost.
He looked for the sun but instead found the moon in all her elegance.
Does she, like him, rise in the east? Does the coastline mark her ascent?
He was unsure, and being cold never helped one become sure when unsure.
He cried, standing, defeated in a matter of seconds, like any child.

In a brief pause to the snowstorm, his cries could be heard out in space.
But it started up again, entrenching the young one in half a cars worth of powder.

Outstretched in his hand, above the hill of crystals, he held that stone.
More precious in that one moment than the consideration of life, or of circumstance.
How naive, but what an expression of true love, unfiltered and pure.

Of course he survived, someone finds him.
His hat is seen again walking the woods next winter.

But until the day he died, no more real an affection or more honest a truth was spoke on his behalf.
Nothing can compare to the bright eyes that lead our way down the dark paths.
Never release.
Never falter.
Never let it slip.
Hold it close like a lover.
Keep it alive like a fire.
Seek companions in the strangest places.
For your records, on my word, promise you will not let go.

Well then.

It's been a few days, admittedly, but I seem to have been swimming in a sea of alternatives, forgive my cliche, so I probably didn't have much to submit artistically.

I (as you can assume) have no assured direction (mostly) because of the numerous fingers pointing in almost every one of the known three hundered and sixty degrees.

I have, instead of choosing one course, (again) withdrawn from everyone, which just makes them more confused and angry, but at least I never stapled my name to one direct action or thought. At least I remained ambiguous.

Huzza for holding out, I would be so very golden if this were some Tim Burton flick.

Sadly, it's not, and i'm a bit too concious of that fact for it to matter that much anyway, so there goes the innocense.

I would post for each day, each of the varied emotions I found myself at, but (one) how fleeting, and (two) who cares?

Detox of mind body and soul...and apparently living space, I found an old journal whilest cleaning my room. There was an entry, more meaningful than it conveys to the listener who isn't keen to my dream sequences, that I felt was important. It adresses my fears and recurring nightmares and at that time, that was a big step for me. It reads:

Poor unwitting, you should
fear the seamless ride
for soon you face
the lightmare, the falling.
I know you don't
know I must watch.
from close or afar
the faces or crash.
no time will pass.
no bodies will speak.
all but i stand
like things, empty furnature.
I blame you not.
But I fear you.
I fear your screams.
granted remorse offers conciliation
but nothing stops you.
and nothing will ever.
i bid you, goodnight

I Don't Know What You Want, Not Anymore

When someone gives you the advice to strike out on your own...what happens?
When you get told that you're listening to what you're told too often...do you take the advice or does that defeat the purpose?

Who can you turn to?

For anything?

You personally, tell me who you turn to.

I might not know them, but knowing that you have someone makes me feel better, because I love you and I want you to be happy, or at least have the means to even when you are not.

A continuation of a song I started earlier.
"There's a man in a suit
Who could do things to you
That you'll never talk of again

Well am I telling the truth?
The validation and poof
Check the scars on my arms my friend."

Because, I Don't Sleep.

My skin keeps peeling away.
I wonder what is beneath it.

http://i146.photobucket.com/albums/r274/Drazer212/thtanh.jpg

Older, but surprisingly relevant.

The Tilt

I seem to find my evening posts falling under the catagory of early morning, so I put them off. Well whatever, maybe I don't have to be as anal as I thought about posting times to keep myself from fully forgetting for months.

A song I started.
"There's a wicked wind
That can eat your skin
When you're marching faithfully

For 10 days at large
Through the crowded bars
Looking for your bride to be"

A title.
"I Could Have Sworn That Man Was A Veteran"

A proverb from a piece of cardboard.
"Decisions are the destruction of alternatives"

The issue.
I sit on the fulcrum, balancing, sliding from the cool night as the galactic see-saw tilts into the am, un-noticing. At this axis point I can barely feel the shift. I don't even feel my evenings slipping into mornings. It's tomorrow.

It is tomorrow right now.

If I go to bed, when I say my prayers and thank the lord for today, what am I talking about? Is a school year different than a real year? Is the day I lived counted differently than a regular 24 hour day?

Did I miss appreciating yesterday?

Do you truely appreciate something you are currently experiencing, or is it only afterward you find the glory in it?

Goodnight everyone, or, perhaps, goodmorning.

C:// Dos Run (catching up fcn #2)

June 12
Stupid chocolate and it's lack of preservatives.

June 13th
Sometmes when Phillip's family gets into a cantankerous game of Cwelves and Capulets, the neighbors file a noise complaint.

Phillip's house is surrounded by cemetaries.

June 14th
Alice Takes A Walk Through The City
(a short story ft. Alice and Lary Garson of This Is Why)
Today, Alice decided to take a walk through the city.
The skies here are blue.
And the air is...relatively...clean.
And yet somehow...it seems to be overcast.

June 15
Well, alright then, hallelujah.

Catching Up

June 9th
I've had a series of radically uncharistic dreams the past 3 nights.
And my dreams are weird to start with.
They took a turn for the violent though.
1. I shot my dog...a lot.
2. My father and I captured Gabriel Sylar...I was a gorilla.
3. I attended a sci-fi convention and was attacked by airplanes. One ex called another a bitch. I went to that store before in a different dream.
The night of the 9th I actually slept really well and had fun dreams.
Wonder why?
*smiles to self*

June 10th
I feel myself getting vain.
This is not good.

June 11th
Is it irony when I notice a large poster for E.R. the television program, and see ambulance lights flashing on it? Is it sick that I chuckled?

Sometimes I Think I Paint Things Other People Do Not See

Sometimes Phillip tries to paint the things that he thinks, but the paintings scare him so he hides them in his closet.

That is why Phillip is afraid of his closet.

This Really Symbolizes the End.

Let everyone remember the poor souls who laid their life on the line on

Slaughter Day, June 7th of the year 2009.
Heros who fought through wind and rain, endured through high tides and certain nuclear demise. These young valiants had among them,

Molly H
Autumn B
Becca S
and Jenna J
Rosemary Jensen, a senior, was taken hostage before the final battle was complete, but it should be noted she commanded her forces like a true Bawss, and won the Red Heart of Outstanding Destruction. The last of the senior officers, those who stood until that last towering remembrance of The Mill On The Floss did crumble, were

Ted Berman

Emma Masaglia

and Tyler Fieldhouse.

This day shall be burnt into the pages of history, come hell or high water. Let Eliot do what she may, on this day, we were victorious. The ashes were collected in a box at 11:54.


Good night, and good luck to you all.

May God have mercy on our souls for what we have done.

Pannel One

This Is Why We Don't Go Into The Woods At Night

Will begin with.

"Mommy, tell me again."
"Tell you what again?"
"Tell me about the forest"

This is the tender tale of a young boy who traverses through the wilderness to find great adventure with (previously misrepresented) nightmare creatures.

Sound like "Where The Wild Things Are"?

Probably does.

That was my childhood.

The Night Man, yet un-named, was a writer who couldn't sleep (again with the sleep??) so he wandered into the woods to find the dark beings that lurked in a man's brain. He (according to legend) got stuck there, and from then on, wandered out of the woods at night looking for small children to steal who would take his place so he could finally leave the woods for good.

One of his poems goes like this (or so I think.)

"When I stop and idle my fingers,
This terrible feeling does linger,
That beasts will come large, and eat off my arms,
So I write all I can while they're still here."

That will not be included in the story...but I think it's something he would write.

Goodnight.

An Astute Observation

So, I was having a conversation today.


Astounding I know.


I spaced out about half way through and pondered my recent(ish) use of sleep deprevation as a crutch to increase my writing capabilities. I was really pressed (by whom I know not) to get some good songs written, and despite my logic going down when I'm tired, my vocabulary and literary device use goes up substantially.


Sometimes I think that may have been a lie.


I got obsessive, and my daytime life suffered...not that I didn't pull it off. I mean of course I maintained honor roll grades and my friends probably didn't notice a thing, but of myself, I knew I was not there.


How different am I from people who use other, less socially acceptable, crutches that I proclaim to hate? I guess I caught on and stopped, so maybe that's the difference. But I still fell into a cycle without noticing, and then did notice and made excuses. I only stopped once I stopped being productive.


I hate those songs now too, for the record.


As I was typing out my lastest song snippit (thought of it yesterday and forgot to write it down) I realized much of my work revolves around sleep and dreams. Not wanting to sleep to be dead to the world, not an escape, but more of a relaxation, a transition into a new reality. I don't quite understand my own thematics yet, but I thought I should denote that for my own knowledge, and for others to examine my workings and ponder alongside me what it is I really mean by being asleep or dreaming.


The quote:

There's a young boy walking down an old street at 4 am

He just wants to get some sleep and I just want to be him

There's a bridal dress, there's a heap of regrets

And other disconnected things that will all surely pass.


Goodnight everyone.

Genesis

Good evening everyone.
It is almost good morning, and life is going quite interestingly.
If you don't already know me...then what are you doing here?

This blog (if you can call it that) is just a way for me to keep track of my own thoughts.
I like to play songs and draw pictures and write short stories.
I have an array of past and present characters floating around my head.

To help keep them in line, build on their personalization, and hone my writing skills, I plan to post different little tidbits about whatever it is I am working on at the time...whenever I darn well please.

These will be things that would be otherwise inconsequential, but for some reason seem to amuse others. Maybe I'll use it to get feedback on ideas, maybe I'll use it for marketing purposes, maybe it will be a glorified journal, who cares? I'm here writing this, and you're here reading this. Doesn't that mean it is a success?

Prepare for the rambling, for it is a-comin'.