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.