And so it went, every night.
My tired bones removed themselves sleepily from my work at some ungodly hour and I would feel such an urge to just fall dead where I lay.
Instead I trudged outward into the blackness, my hands knowingly seeking his warm comfort, my giant guardian. He remained camly outside of the only door into my chambers until the dawn broke, lest some ghastly phantasm should arise to give me night horrors.
Such a proud beast, noble of complexion and wise in his gaze. I don't know what compassion he felt for me, why it was his sworn duty to watch over me, but I don't complain.
Who asks our savior why he saved us when they think it might jeapordize their wellbeing?
None.
So I whisper warm words of soothing to him as I stand beneath this massive chest nightly. I ask him what those cool eyes have seen. He never responds but perhaps leans in closer, if but an inch.
Companionship, care, the most difficult to attain when comfort and respect among men is all we can earn, or truely care to at least. How strange it is then when the true blessings of genuine consideration fall upon us. And who is our sworn protector?
But a figment. A ghost like the rest of the ghouls that wrack our brains. But this one carries the emblem of friendship across his breast, and I would trust him with my life.
Goodnight old friend.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Love in the Seasons
I wanted to write something...I don't know...maybe not good...meaningful?
I suppose I wanted to move you, sway you, make you smile or laugh.
I wanted to start abruptly and end surprisingly and look calm like an actor.
I wanted to be new and origional but accessible and human.
I made a list and I scrapped it and I started over and I didn't even write it.
What's the point right?
You expect too much from me. You don't even know.
The silence kills me.
You've already heard this a hundred times.
I've said it a hundred times and you never heard me say it.
But it's for sure that someone else has said something at least very similar.
That's for sure.
Love isn't the right word....
I want to write a letter and not put my name, but I want you to know it's me.
I just want you to want to write me a letter.
And it's totally fine you don't, I understand, I'm just me right?
I'm just that guy you know. I'm your friend sometimes and you talk to me.
Love doesn't describe that.
That's not love.
What is love?
A Never Sent Letter
Hello.
I don't know exactly what I'm writing here since it's 3 am and I'm supposed to be at your place at 7. I mean you didn't ask me over...but I planned to be there at 7 with some hot coca and maybe flowers and I wanted to give you this. I don't even know why I'm explaining this, I mean, you'll be there...
Anyhow, I just wanted to let you know.
I think I might love you.
I mean it hurts to think that when Christmas rolls around that I'll have a present for you but I won't be able to see your face in the morning like some other guy will.
I don't have much money and I don't really have anything special going for me.
Hell, I don't even know why you're friends with me.
I just can't stand the fact that I could lose you to someone who doesn't love you like I do. When the snow falls down I want to walk through the city with you and hold hands and keep you warm with a very oversized blanket. When the boys get back from the war, I know it's all over for you and I. So this is my holiday season I suppose, Christmas in November.
I guess I'll see you in the morning.
I suppose I wanted to move you, sway you, make you smile or laugh.
I wanted to start abruptly and end surprisingly and look calm like an actor.
I wanted to be new and origional but accessible and human.
I made a list and I scrapped it and I started over and I didn't even write it.
What's the point right?
You expect too much from me. You don't even know.
The silence kills me.
You've already heard this a hundred times.
I've said it a hundred times and you never heard me say it.
But it's for sure that someone else has said something at least very similar.
That's for sure.
Love isn't the right word....
I want to write a letter and not put my name, but I want you to know it's me.
I just want you to want to write me a letter.
And it's totally fine you don't, I understand, I'm just me right?
I'm just that guy you know. I'm your friend sometimes and you talk to me.
Love doesn't describe that.
What is love?
A Never Sent Letter
Hello.
I don't know exactly what I'm writing here since it's 3 am and I'm supposed to be at your place at 7. I mean you didn't ask me over...but I planned to be there at 7 with some hot coca and maybe flowers and I wanted to give you this. I don't even know why I'm explaining this, I mean, you'll be there...
Anyhow, I just wanted to let you know.
I mean it hurts to think that when Christmas rolls around that I'll have a present for you but I won't be able to see your face in the morning like some other guy will.
I don't have much money and I don't really have anything special going for me.
I just can't stand the fact that I could lose you to someone who doesn't love you like I do. When the snow falls down I want to walk through the city with you and hold hands and keep you warm with a very oversized blanket. When the boys get back from the war, I know it's all over for you and I. So this is my holiday season I suppose, Christmas in November.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Progressive News Everyone!
Good news everyone!
(fry, leila and amy cheer, bender drinks another cold one, zoidburg sifts through more trash and hermes isn't in this episode.)
I made an offical blog image! Huzza!
What's more?? I wasted my day editing the image, and made a potential SHIRT DESIGN!!
OOMIGAWSHHHHH
People interested in purchasing said shirt should encourage me to get my lazy ass to zazzle and make it then open up an etsy and sell it to them!
Artists should help me make more designs based off my blog post!
Tell your friends!
Tell your mom!
Don't tell your dad or he'll make me stop seeing you!
Come on people, let's get motivated!
(fry, leila and amy cheer, bender drinks another cold one, zoidburg sifts through more trash and hermes isn't in this episode.)
I made an offical blog image! Huzza!
What's more?? I wasted my day editing the image, and made a potential SHIRT DESIGN!!
OOMIGAWSHHHHH
People interested in purchasing said shirt should encourage me to get my lazy ass to zazzle and make it then open up an etsy and sell it to them!
Artists should help me make more designs based off my blog post!
Tell your friends!
Tell your mom!
Don't tell your dad or he'll make me stop seeing you!
Come on people, let's get motivated!
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Well Fed on Fun Times
It's one of those camps.
You sit idly in the woods for days, mask itchy and heat intolderable.
You just sit there with the others, kicking rocks over or something.
Boredom.
Then suddenly it's all, "GRAB THE CHILDREN! GRAB THE CHILDREN!"
Someone's mask falls off in the clamor and they are sent, shivering, to the ground.
Rigormortis sets in promptly and the nerve gas intoxicates their airways.
Sirens, lots of them.
Just another day here at camp.
Hopefully when you get back from the war, we can make some nice cakes.
I am slightly confused, since the war seems to be here.
Where did you "go off" to?
Are you piloting that airplane?
You sit idly in the woods for days, mask itchy and heat intolderable.
You just sit there with the others, kicking rocks over or something.
Boredom.
Then suddenly it's all, "GRAB THE CHILDREN! GRAB THE CHILDREN!"
Someone's mask falls off in the clamor and they are sent, shivering, to the ground.
Rigormortis sets in promptly and the nerve gas intoxicates their airways.
Sirens, lots of them.
Just another day here at camp.
Hopefully when you get back from the war, we can make some nice cakes.
I am slightly confused, since the war seems to be here.
Where did you "go off" to?
Are you piloting that airplane?
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Presently, Mediocre Sailor
I was a very young man before.
Now I remain a young man, younger than my years at least, in my face, or so I'm told.
But some things have changed me I suppose.
Being supplanted from one location to another, chasing loves on a whim and landing in a new town with nothing to sell but my boots.
I had dreams before, of flying and falling.
Now I don't really remember the things that pass my eyes when they are closed. I could have sworn I knew love, but I guess I forgot it.
There was a tree my father planted in the yard when I was still a very young man.
He told me to race it.
We grew up and I won for a few years but slowly the tree came to dwarf me.
I spent summers with my love beneath it's shady branches, sipping cool lemonade. I always hated tea. I asked him kindly if I could mark him, and he said alright. I carved the name of my love into my brother's side. He didn't wince.
As I came home from afar one spring time, I was in a careless stupor, and I jumped into him and screamed at the good lord above as to why life had to be like this.
He hugged my legs and kept me from God's good gravity.
Things change though. He never left home.
When I grew too old for longing, I found my father's old handaxe, and I furiously beat my brother oak. I demanded over and over he bring my father back. I screamed and he sat and he watched and he bled not a drop. I tasted salt in my mouth from exhaustion before it was done.
I live in a house now, my brother surrounds me, and I am less alone than I was when I couldn't see where I was going in the city.
I apologized to him, and I knew I was wrong.
He said, "It doesn't matter much to me, I still feel the same."
When my love returns in the springtime, maybe we will sit beneath his great arms again and sip some cool lemonade.
She loves tea but I love her too much to care about that.
Now I remain a young man, younger than my years at least, in my face, or so I'm told.
But some things have changed me I suppose.
Being supplanted from one location to another, chasing loves on a whim and landing in a new town with nothing to sell but my boots.
I had dreams before, of flying and falling.
Now I don't really remember the things that pass my eyes when they are closed. I could have sworn I knew love, but I guess I forgot it.
There was a tree my father planted in the yard when I was still a very young man.
He told me to race it.
We grew up and I won for a few years but slowly the tree came to dwarf me.
I spent summers with my love beneath it's shady branches, sipping cool lemonade. I always hated tea. I asked him kindly if I could mark him, and he said alright. I carved the name of my love into my brother's side. He didn't wince.
As I came home from afar one spring time, I was in a careless stupor, and I jumped into him and screamed at the good lord above as to why life had to be like this.
He hugged my legs and kept me from God's good gravity.
Things change though. He never left home.
When I grew too old for longing, I found my father's old handaxe, and I furiously beat my brother oak. I demanded over and over he bring my father back. I screamed and he sat and he watched and he bled not a drop. I tasted salt in my mouth from exhaustion before it was done.
I live in a house now, my brother surrounds me, and I am less alone than I was when I couldn't see where I was going in the city.
I apologized to him, and I knew I was wrong.
He said, "It doesn't matter much to me, I still feel the same."
When my love returns in the springtime, maybe we will sit beneath his great arms again and sip some cool lemonade.
She loves tea but I love her too much to care about that.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Thinking
Things that might pass through your mind when you've got enough time to waste for the two of us
-Just because this isn't as bad as it could be doesn't mean it isn't that bad.
-Being dead might beat being all alone. Or it might be the same thing.
-A cushion and a pillow are not one in the same.
-Remembering is for people who aren't doing that anymore.
-Just because this isn't as bad as it could be doesn't mean it isn't that bad.
-Being dead might beat being all alone. Or it might be the same thing.
-A cushion and a pillow are not one in the same.
-Remembering is for people who aren't doing that anymore.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
What if You Could Touch my Heart?
Mr. Lowe's Notes
The best way to deal with unruley children is not to make them afraid of the monsters in the basement. It is to make them afraid of the monsters in you.
Oddly enough fear is a much greater motivatior than happiness.
How infinately impatient we are with those we wish to love dearest.
I often wonder what Oscar will think of me when he grows up.
I can only do what I know how, I am only a man.
But I would stop living just to watch him smile.
How strange the human heart.
An Oscar Lowe
My Father
My father was never a drinker
But nightly he would sit and tinker
In our shed on a beast, for four hours at least
And once I saw it move it's fingers.
The spiders that lurk even fear it
The monsters beneath, make a great fit
They ask and they pray for the bed where I lay
They could share for the night, save their spirits.
How strange the cold heart of an old man
How calm and how deadly his eyes
He provided my dinners cooked nightly
But I can't help but hope...........
The best way to deal with unruley children is not to make them afraid of the monsters in the basement. It is to make them afraid of the monsters in you.
Oddly enough fear is a much greater motivatior than happiness.
How infinately impatient we are with those we wish to love dearest.
I often wonder what Oscar will think of me when he grows up.
I can only do what I know how, I am only a man.
But I would stop living just to watch him smile.
How strange the human heart.
An Oscar Lowe
My father was never a drinker
But nightly he would sit and tinker
In our shed on a beast, for four hours at least
And once I saw it move it's fingers.
The spiders that lurk even fear it
The monsters beneath, make a great fit
They ask and they pray for the bed where I lay
They could share for the night, save their spirits.
How strange the cold heart of an old man
How calm and how deadly his eyes
He provided my dinners cooked nightly
But I can't help but hope...........
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
