So guys... you will maybe think this is dumb but fuck it, and fuck you all. I am a writer and here is my latest works.
WRITING:
ONE:
In the year I felt like a razor was my life, I was welting away into
darkness. While cannons sat at the end of each tunnel, staring at me
ruthlessly. The bridges where a friend when I crossed no rivers, and
the sun was out while I was shut in. My windows where a disease and
the darkness became my mother, my only friend. The children playing
were the dogs in the yard, warning me of the day. Guarding me like
German bread pit-bulls that someone fed gunpowder. Play war, and give
the smaller child a pow-pow, and you win. Your war protects me in my
unknown shelter, and I stand stupid. The mail man comes once in a
while wondering and looking. Peak at you, peak at you… you can't see
me. In the year I felt like a stone was my life, I sank… I drown… and
I died…Let me moan and be American!
She is like a crystal hanging in the window; makes the room so colorful.
She is like an angel with no wings that walked up to me, and begged
Don't stop, don't stop...
TWO:
Bold clouds silhouette to mimic mountains on the horizon.
A shapeful world always changing to build our memories that are short
plagued by death.
Same as the rain drains clouds to hills and gracefully pass away.
An empty sky blue with beauty but quiet like a soulless slug.
Butterflies in flight flutter as wind swings cattails above the odor of swamps.
Architect building blocks of fate, shapes of life exceed as razors in
the earth shift and earthquakes cry.
Living stone powered by a star alone and violently struggling to survive.
We the animals mimic the pattern in a short-lived history burned in
the future when the books of chronicled ants meet the suns fate.
Life is what seems to be all around me, what's with the lack of mine,
when all I do is dream of dying.
THREE:
As feet pitter patters on the pavement of cities, the matinee of everyday life.
Flowing rivers of cars carve the ecosystem of our mother.
A cleaver to the spine.
As statues lost and made of stone stand in lines of waiting, do
nothing but insanity.
Waves crash in industrial machines on the edges of invisibility.
A cleaver to the spine.
FOUR:
The tides that smack shores holding men on boards roll ever so gentle
with fluid passion and strength.
I am a tortoise and in my shell is what I wear,
a body.
Leaving the little ones behind, thinking to myself "swim my children, swim".
Let your freedom not be like others, because for them conformity is freedom.
WRITING:
ONE:
In the year I felt like a razor was my life, I was welting away into
darkness. While cannons sat at the end of each tunnel, staring at me
ruthlessly. The bridges where a friend when I crossed no rivers, and
the sun was out while I was shut in. My windows where a disease and
the darkness became my mother, my only friend. The children playing
were the dogs in the yard, warning me of the day. Guarding me like
German bread pit-bulls that someone fed gunpowder. Play war, and give
the smaller child a pow-pow, and you win. Your war protects me in my
unknown shelter, and I stand stupid. The mail man comes once in a
while wondering and looking. Peak at you, peak at you… you can't see
me. In the year I felt like a stone was my life, I sank… I drown… and
I died…Let me moan and be American!
She is like a crystal hanging in the window; makes the room so colorful.
She is like an angel with no wings that walked up to me, and begged
Don't stop, don't stop...
TWO:
Bold clouds silhouette to mimic mountains on the horizon.
A shapeful world always changing to build our memories that are short
plagued by death.
Same as the rain drains clouds to hills and gracefully pass away.
An empty sky blue with beauty but quiet like a soulless slug.
Butterflies in flight flutter as wind swings cattails above the odor of swamps.
Architect building blocks of fate, shapes of life exceed as razors in
the earth shift and earthquakes cry.
Living stone powered by a star alone and violently struggling to survive.
We the animals mimic the pattern in a short-lived history burned in
the future when the books of chronicled ants meet the suns fate.
Life is what seems to be all around me, what's with the lack of mine,
when all I do is dream of dying.
THREE:
As feet pitter patters on the pavement of cities, the matinee of everyday life.
Flowing rivers of cars carve the ecosystem of our mother.
A cleaver to the spine.
As statues lost and made of stone stand in lines of waiting, do
nothing but insanity.
Waves crash in industrial machines on the edges of invisibility.
A cleaver to the spine.
FOUR:
The tides that smack shores holding men on boards roll ever so gentle
with fluid passion and strength.
I am a tortoise and in my shell is what I wear,
a body.
Leaving the little ones behind, thinking to myself "swim my children, swim".
Let your freedom not be like others, because for them conformity is freedom.
