Non-Titled
He was cold and wet. It started too long ago, this thing he called life. Nowadays, he traveled with a group of wanderers, all of which were indifferent to each other. There were times when they used to care more, but the location, the paths they walked..all held innate gloom and misery. Tonight he had guard duty with Harren, the youngest of them.
The embers burned, and the wood crackled lightly. As the smoke rose into the air, Harren became uneasy. Everyone was silent here. People only communicated when it was absolutely necessary. That's what made this place depressing. People gathered and worked arduously day and night, into th
Same Ceiling
One:
Morning is Orange
"You slept in again."
"Yes, I know."
"Well?"
"I don't know. I wasn't tired at all. I couldn't find a reason to get up." Jen shrugged her shoulders and tossed away her sweaty blanket. Her room smelled terrible. "I feel restless."
"It's hard to imagine why with all the time you spend in bed. Have you found a job yet? You might as well do that if you're not going to try in school." Sherin was Jen's mother, and she thought of her maternal position as an obligation. If Jen didn't do one thing, she had to do something else. It didn't matter if it was actually worthwhile or interesting. Jen had to do someth
free flowing,
far going,
crafts of home,
beneath the covers,
guns and stone,
are on the headlines,
living lightly,
then silence,
old men hide their bones,
bare their teeth,
sweeping cupboards,
like rhythm of chatter,
he's in the attic,
red is fleeting,
the man outside picks up a paintbrush,
art is dead.
Take a breath,
For sunset park
It's not the dark,
It's made of sparks,
I see red skies,
That once were blue,
I see a maze,
It's in was too,
whispy days,
the same ol' craze,
It's in the daze,
It's been a year,
From me to you,
It's sunset park,
Forever true.
America,
A stout stocky girl,
Bearing fake pearls and a quarantine smile,
She thinks little of growth,
Little of goals,
Shallow and silent,
She is slave to control,
Nothing to show,
Just the material world,
And her disposable fashion,
Nothing is here,
Just bleeding grayness,
No talents to offer,
But amazing potential,
From the heart of an intellect she'll never see,
Extraordinary things she will never be,
Absolved in self righteousness,
She'll keep her screaming silence inside,
Where it belongs,
Oh so shallow,
This crazed little girl,
Ever so white,
This dry little life,
Yet she is the root of all acceptance,
Eve of tomorrow
A sugar-stained cup,
Wilts in a morgue
Its vacant eyes,
Cease to absorb,
And become stagnant as the light from space,
Filling the villager,
For but a minute,
Then disposed,
Indifferently and quickly,
As its first and only embrace
Oafy
I shuffle along a hallway of casual classes,
Accompanied by my precious friends, laughing and smiling at every joke, even the stupid ones,
This cordial acceptance into the world is so wonderfully pleasant; I never have to worry about the slightest distress,
For I am charming, seductive and always well-dressed,
Jeering and strutting, the amenities strive on,
……………………………Until I see in the distance, the unmistakable silhouette of the outcast, this heretic gone wrong,
I brace myself to oppress the oppressed, to make him feel the bitter isolation I always cater, for tis' my duty as school as schools arbitrator,
Ishout at him the most
The Forest
The sun fades over the sky,
Faintly glowing
In hazy autumn air,
Hinted with the scent of the sea,
and dying timber
The soft crunch of gravel,
Amongst the loose soil,
Make up a timeless past,
Of youth and panic,
Sometimes,
At summer's end
A slow trickle is heard,
From all the aging wood,
It's the low drone of flowing water,
Making its crystal cry and desperate flight,
Out of the forest,
To lands great and violet,
Where nothing is known,
And everything is new
The trees stand still,
With the rest of their family,
As time grows gray,
The forest will become old and restless,
Waiting to sleep,
While earth gives b
Bedroom Cartography
Into my white gravity,
Ivory and coal laminate my walls,
The walls that I often stare at during those cold lonely days,
The white tiger looks at me from his plywood post,
The calm smile of continual awareness,
Neither happy nor sad,
Gazing into him,
I see my blatancy,
That I manage to hide from everyone,
But myself,
In the corner lies my misused CD Player,
Whose songs sweetness is sheer succulence,
That makes me know,
As hollow as I may be,
I am not alone,
And my electric enchantment,
Flourishing my unusual talents,
Of eeriness and eccentricity that I ponder,
For its uniqueness,
Or bitter triteness,
A
Mushroom Blue
Deep in space,
Without a place,
Patrons dress in black and white,
Fly fast flight,
To trill and might,
Climb the pinion,
Dim dyes dominion,
The top soars high,
Like a hole in the sky,
Lofty with majesty,
Holding high heresy,
A painting of posterity,
Kings, Queens, Calamity,
Telling tall tales to timid talkers,
Waiters, wenches, workers, and walkers,
Colossal crusades both cautious and clashing,
Ballroom bashes elaborate and dashing,
Walls of slick steel,
Cover houses primeval,
Halls of red ruin,
Gowns velvet antediluvian,
Endow the dusky dining rooms,
Wildly whispering women's' wit,
To pubs and palaces,
The rhythmic thump of dusty footsteps,
Are the only sounds,
That break the meadows quiet,
While the weeds gently rustle,
And Orphic bramble scratches along,
Wordlessly,
Adamantly,
The void opens itself to the coming explorers,
A hidden gap,
In the anthology of a many colored quilt
The String
A string lies alone in a green luscious forest,
Oh how many things can be achieved with this thin little scrap?
Perhaps I'll exploit it with intelligence,
That's right
I'll wrap it around my nipple as a fashion statement,
And what would my sickeningly uptight old neighbors think?
Or maybe I'll stroke it,
Pretending it's a cuddly rabbit I'll call "Pipkin"
So soft and sensual this worn little string,
Then again, I could always make a rock band,
With a good little string what couldn't you do?
(nasty squelching noises)
And if the band breaks I'll vomit in fury defecating all over Pipkin,
This string, How dare it!
Brandi
Feast of the Scarlet Hall by AbbadonFlare, literature
Literature
Feast of the Scarlet Hall
I awaken from a daze,
To find myself in another,
After walking through the emerald plains,
I smell the metal and moss of an ancient machine,
It's inside a cave,
The wet walls speckled with scarlet gems.
The brilliant ones I never cared to see,
But my heart will pound,
They still make me nervous,
The winding paths inside seem to start where they end,
While the impending doom of mystery,
Keeps me walking,
On and on,
I never find the machine, until I realize the cave itself is a grand one,
A mere spectacle without eye and lips,
That never ensnares helpless victims,
But the ones who wonder of their own will.
Mind's Magic
A middle-aged man groggily awoke from a bed of soft velvet. Silky pillows beleaguered his luxurious cot. Serenity's silence flooded the room. Nothing was alive, this scenery frozen in a lapse of time, a word that no longer had a meaning to him. He coughed into his tingling hands and groped for black spectacles, carefully endowed over a rugged visage.
It took him a while to comprehend where he was, and what happened. Perhaps this was another surreal dream, one of the many that wrought his distorted reality. He dreamed reveries of his life, the future the present, the past. He could no longer distinguish reality from these ill
THIS IS MY LAST JOURNAL. I QUIT. That is, on this account, i'm starting anew. I'll friend request my friends soon. Until then, goodbye, fare well, fuck you. I'm off.
going to the mall was a nice change of scene from chocolate, sleeping, and super metroid yesterday. little did i know what disasters awaited me.
there was a fire, near arby's on packard avenue. i thought it was dryer steam, than the smog became black. something was up. before long, several squad cars pulled up to the scene, along with two fire trucks and couple ambulances. funny, before I knew what was happening, I was doing a silly dance called the 'ski-daddler' with Mike on the bus-stop bench as the drivers gazed horror-struck at deadly display of ash and cinder.
when it just started to get interesting, the bus showed up. I kinda wanted
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yes, i deleted all my journals. after having decided that there was no literary or even entertainment value to them, as each was a string of bitchy swill all too similar to the one before it.
i did write another part to one of my older stories, though. it's on myspace.
lastly, i wish to go running over break. perhaps we can drag mike's ass along, too. cuz lord knows we're never gonna get hot chicks in the pathetic physical conditions we're in now.