From fiction to fact. I have been painted red, with what words I could not say. All the things I had never yet spoken were printed on my face, streaks of crimson truth. The king speaks several levels up and within the castle walls I walk a labyrinth. Where is the one I loved and who am I now. I lost me a hundred turns back. When you do no know what to say, say only that which you know. Say nothing.

For All Time

Instance and meaning. Place and being. Its her words I "felt" had faded, which at the time meant nothing, but now mean everything. Place and being. We are the Heroes saving one one another, saved once and for all time. Sure its complicated to try and explain something so simple. But explanation or understanding was never the point. Only belief. Only one point to another. It is what it is, this life is what it is. What I say and write will only ever be what they are. Now I don't want to talk none sense, as I have been often known to write of. Because most of the time all I feel is nonsense. No clarity, no sanity. I only feel chaos and tearing. However this may be just more words I end up throwing up just to see how fascinating they could be. Therefore, I would like to say I regret forgetting memories I'd rather keep and holding with a death-grip the moments I would be most inclined to forget. But what is it in this soul of mine that traces the ridges of my scars like a fond madman. With his lop-sided smile and cackles; he is crazy and I shiver.

To You For Sure

All peace in all peace out. Fisherman I am and I have hooks in every today; next day maybe. I had to be there; of course for you, but my props are inventive. I gots hooks there sure, hooks in you. All peace in all peace out, lets breath together. All together... all in all out. When 'ur born, all in. When you dead, all out. In love all in. In pain all out. All peace in all peace out, watch what you take in, sneaky what you get out. 20 years to the day, I've sped through a thousand momments. ahhahah, game, her, pain, them. All of it is a river in my head, debris of yesterday and the river bends to some unknown tomorrow. I have thought long and hard on what it was I am to say to you. What I am to say to myself. Steer, this is where we shall go. Avoid the sharp pointy rocks and choose the clear path. Never back away from your convictions, always be honest. Endure hardship and learn their lessons. Feel pain but accept it. It fades after a momment. I wish I had... so many "wish I HAD".. never held a bloody knife, never bit until skin broke. Its not very pretty, the picture of me. Painting all over the walls. Honesty? Honesty can be very frighting, not in what it is, but what it reveals. But a light breaks in when all is unveiled. I thought long and hard about all my thoughts. Futile mostly. Most are a waste of time, lost on a path that doesn't even exist. But you're real, my pen is real. This room is real. How about I think about that. You were here yesterday, laughing at me. We left the house and walked to the end of the lane. Where ever that is and wherever we were. Who ever we were. Silence. In this room I remember you. I always think back on all that you said, I recall how you cried. Tears of joy and perhaps pain. But I remember your smile and exactly what made you smile. I was always a sucker for those smiles. I couldn't even be serious. But without you I always am. Serious as death. I face it everyday. I obey all the rules I can, but I know some radical possibility is always out there that could snuff out my life. But most likely not. So whatever. All the cliche sayings have been branded on my mind, "MAKE THE MOST OF TODAY". Perhaps they have all exhausted their striking wisdom. But still I always have to admit the truth in their words. And I will. I will make most of these momments without you. The One I Love Who Now Is Gone.

Somebody Pushed Me From Behind

In the silence of an evening I notice nothing but the wind pushing it's way through trees. Its quite out here in a home that sits at the edge of town. The setting sun has swung to the far side of the horizon. For only a momment, I wish I didn't know where it disappeared to. I wish I didn't know what lay beyond the moutains rising far to the west. Why am I here I asked myself... Yesterday I was suppose to leave this place. It didn't make much sense but I was suppose to die. Just like that I would have been gone. It was suppose to be fate, I saw it and I knew for sure it was my time. But... somebody pushed me from behind. Staring hard at all that was around me, I looked accusingly at everything. The swaying trees, the grass, rocks, clouds. Culprits. Conspiritators in the henious crime of my salvation. All of them! I grip the grass at my knees and played again in my mind what happened that day. The day... I was born. Still to this day it is difficult to understand. Here I was making my merry way into Possiblity. Far away in a place of dreams, I sat wide-eyed as they pieced me together. Commisioned by a master who I could not understand. He mumbled sounds and there was such a light shining in his eyes; especially when he looked at my unnit form. I was careless as all these forms bustled around hurridly inputing data into machines, scratching notes, frowning at me in thought. Light shone everywhere. Lights were even being placed in me. I didn't know what it was but I felt like was waning, being pushed away. But I never moved. As I felt myself sliping away the workers hurried even more till everything I saw became a blur. The master came and went like a wirlwind with his bright smile. Flash. Flash. After a while the sounds of creation started to die down and I struggled to stay where I was. Now the only worker there was the master himself. I couldn't take it and started to make frantic movements and strange muffled sounds. With only a light flash of concern he chuckled and kneeled down next to me. With careful hands he looked at me for a long time. Smiling, sighing, even laughing. All the while looking into me. At last far away a horn gave a loud rumbling blast. He didn't stop looking at me as he raised me up. Bringing me close he breathed on me like one breathes on glass to clear it up. But instantly I solidified like frozen glass. Happiness floated all around him and I didn't understand why I was the focus of it all. A tiny tear formed at the croner of his left eye. Brushing it with a finger he chuckled and placed a strong hand on me. Then he said the only thing I could understand, "Live". Suddenly as if his touch was the only thing keeping me there he let go and I vanished. In the darkness I felt nothing, heard nothing, and saw nothing. But only for a momment. A wind started to push me and I remembered the master's breath. There was a weight all around me and I struggled towards the source of the wind. All around lights started to blink into existence, like stars. These far away dots slowly became larger and I could tell they were just like me. Also like me they rushed to the source of the wind. The wind became a howl and the space around me cut and ripped at me. As we raced along in the screaming darkness lights disappeared. Everywhere the space was glittering. I began to feel a tug on my form, I suddenly realized I wasn't moving myself. I was being rushed to a fixed point. A tiny ball flew past me around it was wrapped noises of its passing and in a tiny flash it disappeared. Then I saw it. The point in my mind where I was being guided, it pulled at me and I longed for it. I knew for sure it was my time. The wind howled around me as I fell faster and faster. Just at the point when I knew I was about to disappear a tiny ball suddenly hit me from behind. I was pushed out of the vortex and away from the point of entry. The tiny ball made sounds like the others and disappeared. For a brief momment I was left to wonder what happened and then the howling built up again and soon after I disappeared. I ended in far away from the world I was suppose to enter. Far away from the death of my baby sister. Far away from the war that ravages my whole country. Far away from a life that would have been mine. But this is where I am. Here beneatht this sky and everyday I grow my certain it was for a well-thought out and intended purpose. And everyday I grow more deteremined to exact that purpose.

Rumble Tumble

Sometimes I am as real as a glass window and on the misted panes I write letters to you. I can never really show who I really am and niether can you really show me who you are. We all write to one another, through actions, through words, and through thoughts. Showing shadows of our real selves hidden in these decaying shells. No I can never really show myself to you, so I write on these window panes. "This kid loves you". Silence. "This guy needs you". Silence. A small fingertip traces the words quickly and frantically. All that I ever wanted to say sits plainly on the outside of my heart, but to trust anyone to draw near those treasured words is a notion I run from. Upon hearing a man in a forest, a deer instintively poised to run. To run for life to run from pain. Danger. I would admit I have often felt this way. My dear sister is always quick to get the heart of a matter and I mean the very heart. That is what I love most about her. She is the only one that seems to want to know what I truely feel. And if others have wanted to know, they never asked. Perhaps I wouldn't tell her all my mistakes, but my mistakes are not my feelings. So, I could imagine myself always being able to speak with her about those things that hurt me the most. But with others this an intimacy I dread. You have not speant the years with me, to deserve these words. I want my words to worth their weight in gold, with which we buy the purest love. I know from this seeing you as you really are takes time. Knowing and loving you as you are takes time. I know from hurts you also would like to hide from me. Sometimes people's questions can seem like knife stabs rather than caring hands, but such is the matter of hearts. I remember one time in highschool I was asked a question along the lines of: "What does a guy want in the world". I said, "To be appreciated". Everyone laughed. Then at the time I didn't know, but I my answer related to my own desire to be appreciated. However, being a methodical and deep thinking as I am I gave the answer I thought everyone could relate to. Not the superficial answer like money, cars, or women. Perhaps it wasn't what I wanted or needed most in the world. But it sure was one of the many things we all have been designed to want. This reminds me of that thought that says that every human has been created with a "God" shaped hole in their hearts. That in these longings to be appreciated, to be respected, or to ultimately be loved. It is only God our maker, who fits and completes that hole. I like to think of myself as a robot, and Jesus bought a lost and vital peice that is key to my functionality. Without that peice I can never fully work or to do what I was engineered to do. You all know how Jesus bought this precious part of all of us. :)

Sleep

Heavy are my eyes, heavy and sleepy
There's blood I've known and of my own mistakes and falling The prize I envy but without which I'm still trying To break the peek of another day The moon arc does not wait and acting likewise love will say, "Thought of me only once to remember me always".

A Fist(Short Story)

Its the fist to the gut, as a fist to the wall. The sudden pain of useless fighting, i find myself beneath the shelf. Where things are laid to be forgotten. I would run, if not for the wasting sickness in my lungs. That makes me weeze, makes me cough, then choke, haggle and yoke. This one burden I do own. So I sit below the shelf, in the dim light. You can catch the scent of this flower, a putrid green tower, of the lesser half of likeness. Making weary all this foolish business. I burn. Yearning ever vigil in a cold steady aim, which preceeds each blood-colored stroke of all the words I wrote.



Yet... yet still you would see more, pages burned, the ash that floats in a dusky room. You were the lone rider, happened upon a dead town. Your horse frisked nervously, eyeing all the dark corners and you felt it shudder as it could not watch them all. Feeling the weight of your body as you hit the ground upon your dismount, you straigtened youself slowly you took careful examination of the whole town. It only consisted of a few admistrative buildings, perhaps one inn housing a tavern. In the silence you heard the echoes of life that resounded the stillness quaking it to thunder. It was so loud. You carried on, hardened your heart, made fast your steps, you were confident becuase you were the only one in this dead town. You paced across the baked earth, hearing it crack beneath your shoes. You made a path of broken dirt to the only house, it's face leaned haphazardly and the windows where broken glasses covering black eyes. You happened upon a room, with fist holes in the wall, dry wall bodies, crumbling to show their insides. It was feeble support for the rotting shelf. Where below sat a limp and dusty puppet. Its vacant button eyes stared past the revolving stillness, through your shoes, and into a world far beyond the one you inhabit. He saw the future, the present, and the past. What he is to be. What he is and always was. His stubborn stitches would stretch, wither and fray. In time he would lay lower even more limp, even more dead. Not disposed to live, but to lay upon the dust still staring blank. But he would always be a puppet, even if one day he was only found to be cloth and cotton. Still he would be a puppet, even if his button eyes one day laid upond a small mass of decaying material half-eaten and destroyed by insects and scavanger birds.

Having pity on the lifeless toy you pick it up in your arms and hold it close. It was the only object resembling anything of the people who once lived in these empty tombs.

The Miss Step

Of the barest site danced I

Through as bare skeletons

Beneath a fearsome wild sky

to prance the dance of fauns



Oh they hide so well

In well timed step

behind the bones that fell

behind the trees that wept



Where oh where my gaze

shall site your fair face

trough the hated haze

of doubt's obscure lace



there also be swords

edges to cut and bleed hope

arrows do become words

flying to pierce what I'd cope



I own my dark past

of time left uncaught

wasted by purity I did fast

I let my flower rot



To know your here in some place

hidden as a clever sprite

I'll hide with my turned face

and think my love not right

Fairious

How many hours has it been since yesterday where I walk upon time itself. I stood not still as the mountains neither was I unchanging as the sun. As it is famously known I will not tarry here when at least they never considered me immobile. Oh but to contentedly tread and blissfully fall and return to the top. Where all the danger lies I'll smile a knowing beam below my shining eyes. It's for all I don't understand that I need so much. You could include love you can also include hope. None of which I could live without and in their absence consider life a useless existence. I'll twist it all! Everything I think I know so well! When something can be said and understood one way can it not be understood and said in another way... I never proposed to be right in such things as writing or at all proficient; only to be consider but not sworn upon that is far too much pressure. I only enjoy seeing how these words twist.



For all those who look at the sunsets and let the colors of life bleed into their souls. Then grab a spoon and find the superhero in you. Its meticulous work for sure, but its profits are well-paying.



What is the next line in my rhyme when at last I was only left breathless before the site in my eyes. The blasts I could hardly stand, the sounds, those looks, it curled me confused. I have paid a great deal for these words, bought with blood and tears. But patience is one who waits beneath the shifting moon, arching through the night. A single dark star. Yet I wait and through the months the stars say all I need to write. Many times I have caught myself saying, "I have been here before". It was one tantalizing reminder and a hint of the world long dead. As in the past world, the one which swirls in our minds. Yesterday. Yet I catch it creeping into today, its subtle bleeds of color on white cloth. However silent it is also painfully vibrant and somehow I always feel powerless to stop those spider web spins; filling pure emptiness with another perfect existence and sustaining occupation of an individual identity. All is fair when the outcomes must be absolute that is why I write in such a way. The colors are all over the place, a mess. Hasn't it been decreed the order of the universe tends to disorder. So isn't the key to understand where I will be is understand the path of that disorder. But to do that I must create disorder or nonsense. At least as much as I can. But this is all nonsense too right? I am just a kid saying what he wants to figure out his emotions in a literary form. Isn't that ripping the mask off a clown! Then you can see who he truly is. These words are only a distraction.



This will be awesome, something to open your eyes. You're upon a cliff staring over an endless ocean, receding into the bended horizon. It is sundown and the colors are brilliant. The rocks beneath your feet are weak, unstable beneath the pressure of your awe. What is the sky? Who are you? The dirt is grainy grinding at your fingertips. Smelling the air, it is full of heat and dust. The wind catches your hair from the east; blowing from a land that now only knows darkness. It is a cool breeze and you know it will permeate everything. What is it to live? You awake in a dream and to fall asleep to life eternal. What is to live though? Falling asleep, you fall and you rise like the tides, yet ever constant. You're a sea and you may change; you colors shift from deep green to deep blue. You are the dark abyss and the safe shallows. Some know you well and others fear you. You are loved and hated. You are the hope of some and the end of others. However you are not a sea. You may tempest and you may rage, the fury of your depths may be known and feared by all. But you are the calm and the peace all long for. You're words are the humming through the reeds. But still more.

Tout à coup

Much of what we had has been lost. Sent to a depth that cannot be reached. But upon this ridge where now we gather as family. I see that we also have gained muched. As the sun rises from the east and a new beginning is seen, great hope rises for the future. It has thus given us strength in our expectant future loss, because it is now known that loss can be gain. Everytime a thief steals from you and still you persist in trying; you win. It is a simple path though difficult to tread upon, its this life that I consider. Maybe you have made peace with all your secret hurt, where as I have still have much to learn. I know it is but a matter of perspective to put to rest those things which bother my side.



Often I write not in understanding, but to understand; tossing out my thoughts like bones and reading their encrypted message. Only I have the need to understand myself, because I am the one I have to live with. Sometimes I view myself as two people, the one you all see and it may be unto shame that I pretend. Because I know what harsh thoughts or words may break my weak disposition. As of now I think of how weak I feel, how frail. I do not know my own strength or rather my strength in you. It seems I find my identity not just within myself, but within those around me. When I am alone it feels as if this weakness is the only standing truth. But with you, I have a past, a present and future. I have experience and I have substance. In my solitude I debase. I look past all my outer rims that so often distract you and I get to the very center. To the man as a person that is neither male or female and there is this chaos. Emotions and thoughts. I need to understand.

A Fist(Short Story)

Its the fist to the gut, as a fist to the wall. The sudden pain of useless fighting, i find myself beneath the shelf. Where things are laid to be forgotten. I would run, if not for the wasting sickness in my lungs. That makes me weeze, makes me cough, then choke, haggle and yoke. This one burden I do own. So I sit below the shelf, in the dim light. You can catch the scent of this flower, a putrid green tower, of the lesser half of likeness. Making weary all this foolish business. I burn. Yearning ever vigil in a cold steady aim, which preceeds each blood-colored stroke of all the words I wrote.



Yet... yet still you would see more, pages burned, the ash that floats in a dusky room. You were the lone rider, happened upon a dead town. Your horse frisked nervously, eyeing all the dark corners and you felt it shudder as it could not watch them all. Feeling the weight of your body as you hit the ground upon your dismount, you straigtened youself slowly you took careful examination of the whole town. It only consisted of a few admistrative buildings, perhaps one inn housing a tavern. In the silence you heard the echoes of life that resounded the stillness quaking it to thunder. It was so loud. You carried on, hardened your heart, made fast your steps, you were confident becuase you were the only one in this dead town. You paced across the baked earth, hearing it crack beneath your shoes. You made a path of broken dirt to the only house, it's face leaned haphazardly and the windows where broken glasses covering black eyes. You happened upon a room, with fist holes in the wall, dry wall bodies, crumbling to show their insides. It was feeble support for the rotting shelf. Where below sat a limp and dusty puppet. Its vacant button eyes stared past the revolving stillness, through your shoes, and into a world far beyond the one you inhabit. He saw the future, the present, and the past. What he is to be. What he is and always was. His stubborn stitches would stretch, wither and fray. In time he would lay lower even more limp, even more dead. Not disposed to live, but to lay upon the dust still staring blank. But he would always be a puppet, even if one day he was only found to be cloth and cotton. Still he would be a puppet, even if his button eyes one day laid upond a small mass of decaying material half-eaten and destroyed by insects and scavanger birds.

Having pity on the lifeless toy you pick it up in your arms and hold it close. It was the only object resembling anything of the people who once lived in these empty tombs.

Shifting Gaze

I am alone, alone in this room. With only memories to speak to. With only shades of the past to bide with in this darkness. The empty cans, unfilled clothes, I empty everything that once was full. I think of a time when the day meant something, now it is meaningless next to the night. I catch the haunting wisp, of the sweetness of a hour, even just a minute. I did not regret their passing. With whom can I speak with that is real, for they are all just human. Just as lost as me, in a sense they cannot find their own way. Just as I cannot find mine. Thus we are fake, cast of what we hope to become until we know where the path of Life is. The time does pass as you well know, like taps on an empty bell which is held still so that the quaking rim cannot resound. I am almost wasted, as if I was drunk. As if I had too much of that intoxicating liquid to even forget any longer. All that is left are all the regrets I have tried to drown. I would not call this depression, for I have known of that boxed place well. Its is more of a haunting and I am the ghost. Cursed to remain when others have moved on and found their rest.