Hello Doctor

Your floor is cold...My shoes? Well I took them off when you left the room, they're in the corner...What? Because I couldn't feel your floor...Oh yes, my problems. Could you turn the lights down? They're too bright...No I don't think I have eaten anything today...No that's not all too uncommon. Is that uncommon, doctor?

Sometimes I sit, that's a lie, I'm always sitting. And I have these things inside of me, things that are both abstract and as tangible as this here chair. I freeze, and I feel less like a person and more like a ceramic cage, a vase, or luggage...What? No I've never thought about killing myself, why would you even say that doctor?? I'm not depressed, just let me explain please. Yes, yes I know you are a medical doctor and not a therapist. God, what, you think I'm nuts or something? I came here with a medical inquiry. You just have to listen.

Sometimes I have these dreams, thoughts, ideas, ideals, i don't knows. They're like little paper airplanes in my cage of a vase head. They soar up from my inside, and out through my ears. They explore the world and are free to be viewed and view others. I can feel them flow, like on air. This is a metaphor of course doctor, don't mistake me for a loon. Please.

But my feelings, my interworking cogs of moral or ethical confusion and solace, are sometimes not free flying paper planes. Sometimes they are dark things, little monsters who grope at my neck from where they are lodged in the pit of my stomach. I tense up, almost vomit, and try to hold them in with my insides. But they claw until I cannot speak them. So they go into my head where I cannot help but think them. And once they see an opportune time through my eyes, and hear a whisper hush from my ears, they crawl out my mouth like grotesque spiders.

It's involuntary, like a gag doctor. I have these things in my head and I cannot keep from spewing it at your feet. This is my problem.

If I must choose from letting loose all my inner-workings or none at all, I would surely be plugged like a fine wine and sealed back to where I couldn't do any more harm. Please, don't look at me like that...What? No I am not on any medication and no I don't want any. Don't you even want to check me first? My throat or my ears? What is the medicine for if you don't know them problem? Well yes I just explained it, but you obviously don't understand or you wouldn't be looking at me like that.

Sir I am going to get another opinion.

No I did not forget my shoes.

I hope you don't make a practice out of ignoring those whose lives you could save, doctor.

I certainly hope you don't.

Status

I've begun new work on the This Is Why We Don't Go Into The Woods At Night story, in my head that is. Oscar Lowe, everyone's favorite neurotic author type, being the Night Man if you remember correctly. None of what you've read already from him is going to be IN the story of course, but don't be disappointed, it's just bonus material for you, my cherished readers. This is the cover, finished before school was out, is just a rough draft...unless it ends up working out. Colors are apt to be changed, this is just what photoshop decided looked cool. Cheers to new artwork soon.

An Oscar Lowe

The Juggler
So I've noticed through trial and error
That juggling just leads me to failure
My hands are not equipped to cycle and grip
And the objects of my desire just go sail, sir.

He can juggle, that man, I have seen him
In the forest of the forsaken
His mouth and his eyes are wizened by time
But his mechanic gaze is painstaken.

So I conclude from studies and findings
That issues of the heart and mind seem
To bury us all under bruises and scars
Unless we watch from afar like in a dream.

Standing alone, juggling it all in harmony
Is not worth the annon-imity.
Sealing yourself away for days, in a perfect, cold haze.
Is untying the strings of our findings.

Either we're buried or shoveling
Never ending and bubbling
With hopes and dreams, to be crushed it seems
But I'm blossoming, and these hands are juggling.

II: Growing Up

Journal Entries of Francis Du'Mort:

II: Growing Up
I've found myself a little time to write now, it's been a few days by my account. We have yet to arrive anywhere different, and yet this whole world feels so new. I've been observing my counterparts and I have to say, I am impressed. We have come to a common means of speaking, a tongue we forged from what all of us could understand of eachother.

I am eager to learn, but I still feel slightly lacking physically. My bones creak with the strain of being in constant motion, I can feel them growing wildly to compensate for my newfound surroundings. It is both elating and frustrating, as I cannot seem to gain my composure.

I feel so giddy though. Every small spectacle is an astonishment, natural occurances, thousands of years of repetition, are so breath taking to me. I can feel my naive eyes drinking in my environment more and more hungrily. I want to know everything. I want to feel everything. Life is beautiful and simple and so complex.

I feel I must go now and explore some more. I still feel as though this expanse, this place, has no boundaries. Life is a book I am reading voraciously. I cannot be stopped.

This is paradise.

-Francis

Every Now and Again

It's just a lot easier to not look at you.
We're not talking and looking at you is strange.
I feel things inside of me and I'm tired.
I have emotions but I didn't when I couldn't look at you.
You want to speak but you want me to.
I'm not going to, give up.
I'm just too over it.
I'm 1/3 done and I'm already burnt out.
I've only known one person in my life.
I've only played songs for my room.
My family likes to dance but I like to observe.
We're alone again and it's hard not to look at you.
But it's even harder to face up to what I know.

We know.

We knew.

I know.
Every now and again I'll look to you, silent.
I'll want to feel the urges again.
But only when it's harmless and unseen.
It's a lot easier to not look at you.
And just put my head on your shoulder.
And breathe, in step, like soldiers.
Observing the battlefields of the night sky.

You understand.

I know you do.

Tonight, For Me

The moon is a fulcrum
I am but an anchor, a pendulum.
I move about, in crazed patterns
But only within a three block radius.

Gravity is a figment
An excuse to keep doing what we do
I have a lot of love to give
But only within a three block radius.

My eyes are on the pivot point
My hands are on the reins
You are forcing me over uncharted waters
Unfamiliar, and far from my three block radius.

I am so very eager.

A Sad Song

This opposes everything I have written up to this point.
I'm terribly excited.

A Sad Song
my enemies are old friends
and my ghosts take second place
and i'm in the lead
oh woes to me.

did you think i thought about the words
before i scripted and rehearsed
i fell backwards into her
i fell down in pursuit

her eyes
were lenses
and her tongue
was splendid
and her fingers tapped on photographs
and she danced on to a sappy song

but me
a possibility
of some hope
for sailors out at sea
but my inks all spilled and sunk our men
our hopes afloat on their children

so we'll sing
a sad song
and we'll sing
a sad song today.