He's Naive

I examined the expanse
through telescopic glass.
I shuddered at sounds
that could be heard throughout.
And suddenly, she tapped my shoulder.

She led me onwards,
to where we began;
A small little house,
on a large stretch of land.
And suddenly we ran.

We crept so loudly
and screamed so soft.
Each breath like symphony
between the clenched, crumpled cloth.
And so suddenly, we stopped.

We gasped in the air,
to forego floating off.
We looked on outside,
and the solace we sought
Breathed, ever so gently, down our necks.

And we lay there and shook for a good hour.

Tyler Says

I am beginning to believe (audacity, audacity!!) in determinism.
Hear me out here.

Life cannot be fated, because events have not happend yet, so fate cannot be a factor.

Life is predictable though.

We fight off the idea of a defined, set, this-is-how-it-goes kind of reality on principles, of "well yes but if i had ____ then ____ instead of ____." or perhaps, "well _____ happened this time but LAST time we tried that, ____ happened."

but listen here.

I am a subscriber to the "we are products of our circumstance" notion. Simply, given your body type, (size, color, etc) and physical factors (brain structure, physical deformities, etc.) added onto the reality you percieve, shapes you wholly.

so yes, it is not fated to happen, because you could have done something different.

but you didn't.

you are a product, a variable with a fixed value. so given a situation with other set variables, no matter how much you debate, you are going to make the decision you make. maybe it's not the same as last time, but you probably have your reasons.

i do not believe in fate.

but i am starting to think that we are all variables in some grander equation, mixing and matching in infinite ways making countless solutions.

what problem are we solving?

I Am So Good At Losing Things

Like the tips of my fingers for example.
They submit to repose as more callus skin forms over the torn surfaces.
No blood was shed but my senses are now dulled thanks to endless nights on metal strings and plastic pens and fictional tears of inconsequence.

The last night, I should denote, I saw the strangest thing...

Oscar Lowe's Notes

Upon Seeing A Young Boy
There is a young boy walking down the street at 4am.
He just wants to get some sleep and I just want to be him.

Who is he?

Why, at this hour between the moon's solid stance and the sun's sharp awakening, does he patrol the empty expanse of this town like a soldier on watch?

And yet, his face is a sea of emotion. At once cool and calm, but obviously reserved for fear of showing that which lies just beneath the surface. The infinate possibility for human decency is lost on me as I superimpose my soul onto his worried face.

I have made up for him, for me, a story of endless torment, compassion, and eventually love. He may be but a single soul walking the gravel roads that line the interior of our corner of Earth, but his is a tale worth telling. I envy his every step like a man with no legs.

Who is he? And then, who am I? This entity in wonderment. This narrator, side character, reader and editor.

I have sewn for him all the seeds of success, all he must do for me, is take one more step.





...and the monsters breathe in, breathe out...

What Is This?

It was early morning out on the rooftop.
I was searching the skyline for planes.
I always wait to see one crash into a star.
I always wait to see you.

I couldn't help but make you the subject,
My dreams springing from my truer self,
The one who cannot resist.

So I wrote stories in my mind.
I made universal truths for myself.
I occupied my days with things that distract.
And yet I filled my nights with cool reflection.

It was early morning out on my rooftop.
I was searching myself for answers.
I always wait to see two souls collide.
I always wait to see you.

What is this essense of engulfment?
Who are these hands working for?
What of myself could you ever truely trust?
How could I prove that my work is for you?

Well I think it's quite obvious that it is.
Another night alone on my rooftop.
And I saw a plane crash into a star.

I Was Just Kidding

It doesn't hurt.

That is inapplicable.

Just try and figure me out.

It Hurts

Removing my ribs, singularly.
Feeling my heart drop fast.
Your fingers feeling through me.
How quick the time will pass.

In the space between bated breath and suffocation, we sit, still, with eachother, alone.

In the expanse between us, a void, a universe, a nothingness. How quickly the gap closes.

I want it too.

Alice In Wonderwaffles

"Have you seen my blueberries? I get the feeling you may have seen my blueberries," he said.

She looked at him quizically, "But you're standing right there with them."

He smiled then quickly shook it off into an angry tone such as had never been heard before and yelled, "So then stay away from my blueberries you fool! You're a stupid, stupid girl!"

And suddenly he disappeared, and eventually, so did she.

The Interesting

Such a feeling to hold in your hands
A human life, quite a grain of sand
Compared to the others but what could she be
When she grows and leaves home for a life in the city.

Five seconds of revelry at a baby girl
Changes quickly to fear, awknoledging our world
Is the place not to be without safety's defense
But you can't protect her forever, or make any amends.

Hold on while you will and I'll give you a chance
To teach me of trust in this world's great expanse.

I'd Hoped For A Different Result

There is no comfort in the palms that support my spidery fingers as they peruse the keyboard tonight.

My artwork is inapplicable in a changing environment.
My ideas are reverseable like a jacket.
My confidence is sailing low towards the sea.
Yet my prospects seem bright, and I don't know why.
This internal motivation to continue building has yet to cease.
I cannot stop trying to improve myself internally and externally.
I cannot ever be truely happy, by your terms love.
But that fact alone brings me joy you cannot imagine.

I will never be complacent, lazy, wasteful.
I will always know that at least I'm trying

And that's more than I can say for him.

I posted last night with harsh tones, reflecting on all of my friends individually. I deleted it because I realized I lost the purpose of this project. This is something bigger than me because it is less real than me. I can bend my reality here. This is not a place to show you the knots and sores where reality bent me.

I will continue writing and trying to tell you a different story nightly, although I have already become repetitive, finding a niche at most. More than likely I will become like any antiquated songwriter, always searching to explain that story that has always compelled them. Or perhaps a madman on the street, shouting that the end has been coming since the late 60's.

I hope you forgive me for my temporary lack of self control, these spurts come on sometimes. I think I whine too much but there is so much whining left to be done beneath my surface. If I can salvage my mind into something that reality cannot grasp with it's leathery talons, perhaps I can retain that force of power that can never be fully described.

Motivation, guilt, experience, knowledge, power, charisma, prowess, instinct, mood, shape, form, light, talent, color, word.

These unspeakable terms I find myself holding just on the tip of my tongue, waiting to be whispered into your ready ears.

Let me resume my mission.

My Heart, My Heart!

I'm So Broken

219
Then everyone turned and ran to hide
The Doctor first and Me behind.
They said, "the evil's come to pass,
Our hiding places will not last."

The Doctor's cure to this disease
Was strange to me. Though I, naive,
Could not see beyond the throws,
Watched him place the crosshairs below his nose.

An evening gown in ladie's red
Came from his face and forth he bled
Unto the ground and so it seems
This cursed plage, it ends with Me.

Oh Becca, (Don't You) See

So here we are, it's 3:11 not 11:45 like when I usually post.
I'm going on a trip and will return Sunday night.
To tide you all over, I'm going to post every song I've written since I started keeping track of them on my computer and not in various notebooks.
For those of you who have physical copies of my Ruby Slippers and Crash songs, these are not them. Some have already been posted, deal with it.

Hopefully this will tide you over until Sunday.

Leave me lots of comments alright? :D

-time passes-

alright i took all the songs down

that was a limited time deal and i hope you all enjoyed it

just keeping you all on your toes :]

Scales

The annoyance of being an artist is you always focus on art.
Artists make art for artists.
Singers sing songs for musicians.
Only skeptics buy into hypothetical situations.
Only the decided can argue against the divided.

When you're in charge of writing other people's dreams, sometimes you wonder if they appreciate the faint hints of excellence you include. Like a slight background symphony hidden by a large man with a jackhammer. Why do yours always come out as nightmares? Talent? I doubt it. You lust for the life of another, and yet another lusts for the dreams of the dark.

Typical wanting what you don't have story I suppose, except maybe you don't learn in the end that you always had what you wanted. Maybe you were wrong with both choices and you're actually an accountant not an artist.

Who could you be if you wrote other people's dreams?

Step, One, Two

So once again, now that I've accomplished the goals I've dropped them.
I wrote the songs and forgot them.
I know that I can and move on and
I get so much praise for so little.

Before, if I was frustrated I would hit reset and retry.
Now I fight until I win then put down the gloves.
What is worth it to me?
What is worth holding on when I could care less?

The victory isn't the focus, but it's the peak, afterwhich I feel my interests wane.
Another project, another theme, another self that I could be.

How hollow the work is.
It shows potential, and yet it is finished.

I know I can, so I don't.

You all see the budding form, I see only the lines.

What is this reliance on new material? Why do I stop caring?

If art is an expression of self...I really don't give a good shit if I'm lonely.

How can I force myself to hold on?

the prize goes to...

As an assignment, we were supposed to draw two self portraits with only a sharpie, I happend to recieve a red one. They were to focus on line and contour, expression of form rather than realistic shading or symbolism. Let's hope I get a good grade on this. Sorry to waste tonight's post on schoolwork.



Instead of another profile of my face I decided to do perspective for these...this one focusing soley on my pants, so the two dimensionality of it borders on boring line art. But I like how it turned out...I want to write on the ground, facing the implied body, not the audience,
"What Giants See"



This one I did with my left hand, noteably more challenging. Hence the stupid squiggley lines. But I'm overall proud of it. Comments?

So Here We Are

Unformatted, uncut, indecisive and tangled up.

I painted a picture of eternity upon a canvas meant for a simpleton.

I spoke with words in song using a tongue built for lovers.

And yet I cannot seem to express still, that which chisels away daily at my very heart.

"It's just paint, they're just words.
Fingers are for feeling
Fists are for beating
Scabs are for healing
And blood is for bleeding."
Name that tune!

Haha, goodnight everyone.
I hope getting cryptic is worth it for some of you.
Wordplay being my forte, I felt like weaving rhymes would better suit my time than stories that show how boring and unorigional my mental mechanisms are.

Let's see if poetry suits me.
Remeber that time I sent you those lines?

She knows who she is.
Thank you love, for reminding me who I was.

She knows who she is.

And Here Again

It's time to put on the happy face and the sad hat, making for ideal dreams in my melancholy mind.

Somewhere in between reality and a lie, my truths are less the stories and more the rhyme. An author abounding with arrogance defeats his own desires as his demons devour him.

How translucent, yet shielded I remain. I contemplate my safety and wallow in the stains on my resume. My feelings detained for later days of truth, nondescript and fantastic.

This is not the life I live, or the one I want, this is something else entirely, a world you created and I told you about. How does that make you feel? Being God is a burden, one would assume.

In the words of Oscar Wilde
The truth is rarely pure and never simple.
Happy trails to open conversation, as I bait you in with contemplation, simplicity and foolery. How lucky you are to wear my words on your sleeves, and how difficult they were to create. My throat gives you no more. Cherish.

Please don't hold on, it's getting worse.

Please don't listen, I'm a mad man.

Please draw me in closer...

I wanted to speak candidly, but this shining armor weighs my morals down to the dirt and my boots crush the grass on the shady side of a makeshift oasis.

Obscure? Perhaps.
Meaningful? To someone, perchance.

Did it ever mean a thing to me before I knew you loved it?

Does that even matter?

Colors You Love

I tried to explain without words what I wanted to show you.
I tried to capture upon a canvas a moment in passing.
An instant.
A flash.
And it hurt when I failed you.

Sometimes I paint only in black.
Sometimes I painy only in the colors you love.

I painted a picture of eternity.
I showed it to you, you smiled, I smiled.

But I only smiled because you looked so happy.
I didn't see anything.

So come on, come on!
Life is wasting away!
Come on, come on!
We can squeeze one more day
Out of these things we've made
Everything that I create

Is composed of the colors you love.

Closer and Closer

The main thing with people like him is to not get impatient. Sure, he's said the same things a thousand times, sure he's going to tell you the same tired story again like it's new and fascinating. What you've got to remember is that he is like a small child, always fascinated. What you've got to do, for him, is put on that happy face every time and be encouraging. People like him need a solid foundation.

Kicking him to the floor does not count.

No mam, tough love is not the same with people like this.

Look, we ARE professionals here. Trust me, your boyfriend seriously needs help, I know he seems fine sometimes, all the time, whenever, but he is unstable. He is not fit for society. Sure we let him sing his songs, it calms the other patients. That doesn't mean we trust him.

No that does not condone you not trusting him.

You have something over him no ammount of clinical respect for us will ever compare to.

You have his heart.
Well I'm sorry if you don't want it! Sometimes you just need to be there for someone.
Please just give it some time. You seem to be his connection to the real world. Please help us help him.

Please just give it some time.

For him.

Likewise,

Paying attention to the small things makes you ponder the futile.
Loving the irrelevant is passionate, but not productive.
Procreate!
Who can claim to never waste?
I trust that you see the forest and the trees.
Just one interests you more. Right?
Procreate!
Maybe the fact that you came back to questioning yourself is the answer within itself.

And the Truth Is

...that no one really knows

what the fuck it is you're doing

so we hide ourselves appart

and we just keep it moving on.

You Were A Raincoat

When I was younger, much so, almost a month ago, you were a raincoat. You wrapped yourself around me and kept me slightly hot, but not too bad. You kept my frail form, already weakened by sickness and restlesness, from the cold rain that would surely be the death of me. You, your bright colors, always perky on dark days when you know you'd stand out most against a gray sky. How cute you were. You made us both stand out, like a walking lighthouse, shining on everyone as it passes.

We were a two person lighthouse and you were my raincoat and we were much younger and now we seem different. Maybe now that the sun is out, my colors will seem more passionate in contrast.

I Know This Is Belated

This is riding the fine line between belated and never sent.
At which point should the sender just forget it?

"It's the thought that counts"
Counts in seconds and only lasts a few.
I was the one who kept my mouth shut.
I was the pride you grabbed by the reins.
I was burning up and loving every minute of it.
It's not a feeling or a word or a song.
It's not written in any book.
It's smeared on the faces of the young.
It's carved into the skin of the old.

This is almost not worth saying.
Meaning being meaning wether expressed or not.
Time being relevant, our bones lasting longer than our skin.
But the dirt lasts longer than our bones.
So maybe when we're dirt it will be opportune.
I'll step up and apologize.
It takes me 12 seconds to come up with a witty response.
I plan everything I say to you.
This is the search for another way to spin the wheel.
This is a sound you cannot hear because it's all around you.

I know this is belated,
But I love you back.

...fun!

"She said oh, don't be so greedy,
You're a starving artist!

Oh, and I'm so needy,
But look how far this flaw has come."

This Martian Ends His Mission

My father told me a story once about when he was a younger man, and he sat his parents down.

He was very concerned.
He asked them, in all seriousness, if he was an alien.

He felt disconnected from society. He didn't understand other people. He didn't want do deal with a confusing and ever changing reality that, although subjective, was none the less difficult to muddle through especially for an intelligent young mind.

They just laughed at him, they thought it was a joke.

He never stopped believing.

One day my father sat me down.
He told me he saw how concerned I was becoming, and that I could relax, because we were a family of aliens.

Strangely enough, that was the most comforting thing he could have said.

Pairs of Shoes

How interesting, the Book of Memories.
Like reaching into an ocean and pulling out a different sounding chonch each time.

Other lives through others eyes.
I feel like a painter not a writer, although painting is the weakest of my strong suits. I feel like each story is a new color to my pallete. A new blend to mix and toss like a master glazing the canvas lightly and delicately, only to find a new way to work the scheme later. Improvement for the sake of boredom.

Each misconception is a bonus color I keep hidden away.
Who I thought you were, in my cynical dreamer dreams, remains in my back pocket for use in the undoubtfully unplesant tomorrow. And if not? Then it will rest like an infant, peaceably, until needed.

How wonderous meeting new people is.

Shots

No, I'm serious.
When you see me, you best back the hell up.
Cause I'm way more important than I am.

I've been bragging about my money since before I had my money.
Of course, that was just to make the transition easier for you who know me.
Did you ever doubt I had my shit together?
Like I didn't have this whole thing wrapped up before I even started.
Come on.

I was laughing my way to the bank before I even started, it's just too damn easy.
Plans? Ha. No.
It's a blueprint baby.
You don't even have to think.
Think I'm a genius? Nah, I'm an opportunist.

But when it comes down to the line, which of those two would you rather have paying your bills?

Think on it.