Category Archives: Creative

Creative, Simple Shorts

Smiley Two-teeth

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There he is, the sore of my eyes, the terror of the town. All run from him screaming in fear; kids, grownups and most of all, grannies.

Smiley Two-teeth. Not because he smiles a lot and has two teeth, no. But because it sounded good to him. Just hearing the name puts the fear of God in us all. His real name is Davey Huckleberry, a name that put fear in its owner, hence the name change.

He’s a force to be reckoned with, all three feet five of him. Don’t let his small stature fool you. His little man complex makes him a giant. His angelic countenance is broken by a wretched scar from a freak shaving accident at age eight. This makes him look like the terror that he is.

To us grownups or people of height, no shins are safe. No dogs are fierce enough either. His speedy little feet will chase you down and there will be hell to pay for running away from him.

His cackle after he chases you down will make you break down and cry, curled up in a corner calling for your mother, no matter what age you are.

One man stood up to him, a hero and a giant in our eyes. He stood seven foot eight, weighed well over three hundred pounds. It was a battle of biblical proportions, a modern day David and Goliath. After the battle was done, the giant stood two feet seven; a tiny withering, puny, pathetic little ball of a man, if you could call him that.

After that historic day, no man dared stand up to this little giant. No man has, and no man ever will.

Creative, Simple Shorts

Life of Sheep

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Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

The smell of grass from a green meadow fills the air. The sun beams brightly on my back. Not a care in the world. I graze lazily as I wait. I wait to be counted. I chew and chew the tasteless grass, swallow, and chew again.

A “Bah, Bah” off in the distance. It is time. I sluggishly get up, one leg, two, and then the third and fourth follow. I’m lost in the herd army; marching away to our purpose, to be counted. We all move along without fear, for there were no threats from dogs or wolves. We move with determination.

Day turns to night, and we are bathed in the starry light of night’s light bulbs and the crooked moon. A line forms, and a chorus of “Bah, Bah” erupts in excitement. It is now that we hear the voice of the cool night breeze. My life is a routine; the sight ahead of me is no wonder, no miracle. It’s just life.

Slowly but surely, the line ahead of me shortens. Soon it will be my turn. The windy voice is getting louder and clearer. There’s three ahead of me, two, one, and now it’s my turn.

With a “Bah Bah” I leap over the wooden fence. I soar through the night sky, soaring and soaring until the world below is a dot. I reach the stars. Paper cutout of different colors, drawn with squiggly lines to show its magnificent shine. I soar and soar. Nothing is a wonder, for this is routine. Over and through the hook of the crescent moon I start my decent. I land in the waiting herd with the voice of the wind counting 47. I am 47.

My job is done, my purpose has been fulfilled tonight. I graze lazily with my companions to the soft whispers of the tired wind…48…49…50…51….

Creative, Simple Shorts

details

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She walks with a stealth like gait, quiet and weightless. The most dedicated walker I’ve ever seen; head down, eyes forward and all business. Her sweet scent is floral and nameless. The only word that comes to mind is Lavender. Her hair, brown and curly, frizzled if unkempt and humid. She appears delicate and fragile, but we all know better. She’s off in her own world as she giggles to herself, laughing at a joke that she only gets. A thin grin appears as she silently eaves drop on some one else’s drama. Her wit and humor, dry as the sands of the hottest desert. How she gently lays her face on her delicate little hand as she naps. Eyes closed, she gently rocks herself with her feet to the music she only can hear. The glimmer in her eye and joy in her voice as she talks about her little brothers and their recent misdeeds. The soft whine in her voice as she proclaims her daily anthem of “I’m tired.” Her stern and icy demeanor changes as we become alone and fall into familiarity, our daily routine of catching up and soul searching. The genuineness in her voice as we bid each other goodnight. ¬

Creative, Simple Shorts

crush

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She stood six feet four inches as far as I was concerned, but I’m sure she was only three foot one but no more than three foot one and a half. I was seven, I didn’t know what my height was way back then and I didn’t care. All I cared about was her. She had large brown eyes, an engaging smile, and shiny long brown hair. She was my Repunzel. Tina was her name, or was it Nina, or Gina, no, maybe I think it was Kristy; I don’t remember. What I do remember was that she was a feisty one. Her slim petite figure, as if children can have another type of figure, charges through the playground as we play tag. The boys would chase the girls, slapping them on their butts to steal a grope. At age seven too, how corrupted us boys were. Instead of sitting on the ground like the other girls, Tina or Nina or Daphne or whatever her name was would chase us back and steal a grope herself with her fist or knee or feet to our soft fleshy areas like our stomach, face, or her personal favorite, our groin. After regaining consciousness, I realized she wasn’t the one for me. I moved on, as I should. She was Kristina or Tristina or Trista or maybe Michelle. I don’t remember, but she sure was a feisty one.

Creative, Simple Shorts

A Baker’s Vision

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This is something old that I’ve written. I’m guessing this was in, oh…2004, summer. It was a writing assignment a friend of mine at that time had given me to do. She got this writing assignment in a summer extension class she took. The premise is to write a story where a wedding cake ends up smashed on the road.

It is unfinished as I got tired of it…my insecurities in my writings got in the way. I don’t even know where I was going with it. Will it be finished? I highly doubt it.

Perfection. What is it? I’m surrounded by perfection; yet, I do not see it. I create perfection, and yet, I do not see it.

Every time a couple comes in, they flip through the book; they glance over perfection after perfection until they come to their own. There’s classic white, chocolate, yellow, cheesecake and more. Tiered. Stacked; two, three, five. Frosting of different shades and different flavors. Simple to fancy. Fancy to extraordinary. Extraordinary to perfection. Each made and decorated with extreme care, attention, and love.

The wedding cake is the symbol of the couples love and affection. It is what the couple shares with their friends and family at the reception. It is a part of them; an extension of their love and their being. It is a symbol of their faith and their promise; the promise of their union, their love.

During the celebration of the birth of their union, the cake is presented. From tradition, the celebrated couple makes the first cut into the cake, bringing perfection to an end. Then they temp each other with pieces of the cake, holding it to their lover’s mouth, taunting and teasing, until the final moment of devouring.

The cake is quickly cut into pieces. Passed on to others to taste their union. Devoured, dirtied, trash, crumbs, and nothingness has perfection become. It is nothing and insignificant, only a sweet treat in their guests’ eyes.

* * *

Today is like any other day, an early morning of work. My shop prepares every morning in the usual routine to ready it for life. It is a sweet lover’s delight. The aromatic smell of life fills the air. My garden of baked goods; pastries, doughnuts, cakes, breads, and many more delicious treats.

Patrons come and go, finishing their usual routine. Coffee with danish or tea with shortbread. Each taking a little piece of heaven to complete their morning.

One couple in particular surveys my smorgasbord of sweets. Slowly taking their time, they admire the smell of the breads, savor the deliciousness of the doughnuts, and quench their thirst with the blueberry muffins.

Once they finish their assessment, eagerly they approach. They ask for the book. With some hesitation, I pull out my bible of cakes and pass it on to them with care. They thank me. Caressing the book, they carry it to a table to verify their faith.

The couple is as lovely as any other, young and in love. They are oblivious to the world; ‘cause to them, there is only love. They do not care that they are poor as shown by their second hand designer imposters. Their love is the only thing that matters. They do not care that their four jobs between them just put them into the black of savings, for their love will conquer all. They are above all that is petty.
With each turn of the page, the bride-to-be’s breath just holds a little more and more, only to be released by the tightening of her mate’s reassuring hand. Their heads so close together, they are one, heads down, admiring the beauty that is before them. With each page, beauty comes and goes, matching their taste to their love. The groom’s jittery legs dances with anticipation for the next page and the bride’s slow revelation of what is to come.

The bride’s breath holds completely along with her lover’s jitterbug. Stillness. It is a moment of clarity. With a single look, all is said.

Bad Rhymes

2004-08-14

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Love is a dim and fading light

I see you on a daily basis
Watching you watching me
Stealing shy glances that we both don’t see

You talk to me and build me up
I construe your attention as affection
Leaving me drunk with your essence

I join a group to confess my sins
It clears the soul and brings realization
I’m a puppet entangled with your strings

Now knowing what I know about love
I rebuild my heart with ice and iron
It keeps me steely cold from your glances

I keep to myself not talking to you
Hoping that these feelings will fade away
It doesn’t because my heart melts for you

I mend my heart again trying to find a way
But there is no way when it comes to love and lust
So I go through the cycle with you day after day

2004-08-14

Simple Shorts

Turkey Tofurkey No More

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It refuses to come out, it refuses to flow. It stays and stays, filling and filling up my small little container. The pressure builds and builds, even when you think there isn’t any more room, the pressure builds and builds, ever expanding the taut, yet flexible container.

Ache. Pain. Pressure. Gas. Bloating. All builds and builds and builds, never giving up, never giving in. All builds and builds, even when there is no more to build. What can I do? What can I do?

So I go and sit, go and sit, go and sit. Sometimes there’s flow, other times there isn’t. But there will always be constant pain, constant pain. No rest, no sleep, no relaxation. Nothing. Just pain, pain, pain.

What can it be? What could have caused this? Maybe it is the little fishes that swim in the sea. Maybe it is the fowl the goes cluck cluck in their cages, or maybe it is their shelled offspring that is so popular during breakfast. Maybe it is the shelled crescents that crawl and flap their little flippers in the sea. Who knows? Who knows?

The pressure builds to biblical proportions. There has to be a release, there needs to be a release, but there isn’t any.

It started in the middle of the night. It started late. Tossing and turning, waiting for the silent assailant to come and attack me. Unbeknown to me, it was fatal. It was debilitating. It was torture.

I doubled over with pain as the pressure builds and builds. My intestines rumble rumble and gurgle gurgle with the unidentified attacker. What can it be?
I get up, hoping that it was just a cramp. I walk it off, but my legs give out. There’s no strength. None to speak of.

On my knees, I set myself down on my side, laying there hoping that this will go away. It doesn’t. It stays and stays, causing more and more pain.

One more attempt at heroism. One more attempt at saving myself. I muster all the strength I have left and crawl, crawl like the way I use to oh so long ago. One arm, one knee; the other arm, the other knee. I crawl and crawl.

I finally reached the throne. I finally reach the throne where I sat so proudly with familiar humiliation before. Now it is my savior. Now it will ease the pain, or so I was lead to believe.

I hoist myself up to the throne and relax. But there is no sense of relaxation. The throne sits as it always sits, and I sit there feeling worse than I did before. Worse than ever. I never felt this much pain before.

There’s no release, even during relaxation. Maybe it’s because of the pain. I brace myself with each stab, that I’m too tense to relax. Maybe that’s it.

Giving up on the throne, I fall off. My, oh how the mighty king of yesteryear have fallen. When I fall, I fall hard.

Something feels like flowing, something needs release. There is a limit. There is a limit. I hoist myself up, but it flows in the other direction. It comes, oh so little, but it comes. It is some release, but it leaves me feeling no better.

Knowing that there’s nothing more to come, I managed to crawl myself back to the comfort of my bed. I tuck myself in, but there is no resting tonight. None at all. It comes and comes, never ending, never ending. PAIN.

I toss, turn, spin around and repeat the cycle hoping to find a position that will alleviate the pain just a little. But little did that help. It only causes the pain to double. The pressure increases exponentially with each passing second, with each passing minute. What is going on? What is going on?

I close my eyes, praying that the pain will go away. The pain stabs on for an eternity and another after that. I look at the clock, and the time never changes. Hell is eternal.

It gets no better. There’s no relief in sight. Eternity passes again after a couple more and soon, there is light. Is this the saving grace that I was praying for? Is this the cure to my madness, the pain, the assassination of my assassin? No, it’s just the rising sun, reminding me that the pain goes on and on, like days go on and on. There is no relief, none in sight. It’s just a sick cycle of pain on top of more pain.

I roll myself out of the half-assed tuck that I managed to put myself in. On my knees again. It seems so familiar, even though it was so long ago that I was on my knees. My day “officially” begins because it is morning, but my assassin and I know better. My day started hours before. My day started yesterday, and that day never ended.

I sit myself down on the floor and focus on something calming, the nothingness of life where there is nothing to feel. I meditate the best I know how, by closing my eyes as shown to me in the old school kung fu movies that I’m so familiar with. What a load of shit they are. There is no meditation, there is no cutting of the pain.

I toughen up and be the man that I’m known to be, or the man that I tell myself I am, only to know that I’m just a teddy bear of a specimen. I strip my clothes out of foolishness, hoping this will magically ease the pain, but again, fools dream.

I step in the shower, focusing on the running water that bounces of my body. I rub myself as best my tired arms would allow. I slowly wake; well, at least more than I was from the tired listless night, and I am able to focus. I’ve managed to be able to deal with the pain. I’ve gotten use to my assassin.

I step out of the shower, a little more refreshed from when I stepped in. I pull on my boxers, my jeans the way that everyone does, one leg at a time while balancing with the other. Even in my tired state I’m able to dance the daily dance that everyone is familiar with. I’m not going to let this assassin get me down. Not today.

Finished, I managed to WALK, not crawl, but WALK to my bed and lay myself down some more. This day goes and goes. It goes and goes. A hour goes by and I look at the clock on to lied to by my skewed sense of time. It has only been five minutes.

KNOCK KNOCK

The door. Damn, curse, fuck, who can it be? Who knows that I’m here, dying a silent death? I know it is someone that can’t help me. No one can. With a one and a two, I managed to work myself up to my elbows. With another one and a two, I’m sitting up.

KNOCK KNOCK

Keep your pants on. Hold your horses. I’m coming. I’m coming.

With a heave ho, I’m up walking my zombie walk to the door, dragging my feet with each drag. But I manage to make it there. I open the door without even asking. There’s no point. She’s going to see me eventually and then there’s going to be drama like every other time and every other thing that she’s worried about.

“What took you so long?” “Are you okay?” “What happened?” “Did you faint?” “You look sick. You look tired!”

The questions and the accusations keep coming and coming. There’s no point getting a word in. I know better. I just turn on my dragging heel and zombie walk my ass back to the lying position I was before I was so rudely interrupted.

She marches in along with the troupe. They surround me, suffocating me with the questions and the accusations. All eyes were on me. Why can’t they just leave me alone? Why?

Do I need to go to the emergency room, do I need to see a doctor? I don’t know. I can’t think straight in this state and with all the noise and concern voices all around. Maybe it will pass. Maybe it will go away all on its own. I’m sure it will. It’ll go away. I could bare the pain now. It is like second nature to me now. It’s no big deal.

KNOCK KNOCK

Another knock. Who can it be? Who is it?

The smaller one of the troupe opens the door to reveal it is the one that I made plans with. My long lost brother.

He walks into the room and sees me in this state. He asks what is the matter. A barrage of answers from the troupe. I’m sure he picked out what it is that is wrong. I’m sure with the whole troupe there, it is hard not to get the answer.

He got his answer and a quick “you’ll right?”. A simple nod from me and that is all that is communicated. From then, he laughs. He laughs at me. Making fun of me and my dire state. So typical.

Since he’s here, my day officially begins, for real. There’s no hiding, there’s no resting. We have to go, and I muster the strength to get up and out of bed, out of the room.

No, I don’t need to go to the hospital. I’ve decided. I could wait. This will go away. It will most definitely go away. I believe that it will.

Our plans has gone down in the crapper today. Too bad it isn’t the thing that is filling up my flexible stomach that is going down the crapper. Why can’t it be that?

I’m where I need to be. I’m where I have to be. I decide to go and lay down, hopefully me being still will trick the assassin that I’m already dead and maybe it’ll leave me. Maybe if it does what it needs to do, it will leave me. Hopefully it does.

I lay and lay and lay. Eons upon eons pass until I can’t tell one eternity from another. Everything is just a jumbled mess of passing time. Everything looks the same in this cramped room…the same view of non movement. Everything is burned into my eyes. They look the same, even with my eyes closed.

I open my eyes, expecting to look worse than Rip Van Winkle after his short sleep. To my non-surprise, I am no different than when I first laid down, and no different from the night before. The only difference is the strength of the pain. Since my little non-sleeping hibernation, the assassin went to work on my stomach again. Stabbing and stabbing with no regard.

………………..

blogs, free flowing

Where do you go from here?

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Where do you go when you have been everywhere? I have traveled the world, seen all the sights there is to be seen. The big attractions to the small rural wonders that no one pays no mind to. Where do you go? What is next?

What do you do when you have nothing in your heart? That feeling that have been boiling there for the past couple of years just suddenly stop boiling; it just evaporated into the air around you. What do you do?

I don’t know. I move on and find some place new to go. Space, the core, the ocean, anywhere but here. I move on from the feelings that I’ve felt in this lifetime and find new feelings to experience from my next lifetime.

These walls are getting claustrophobic and familiar. Every single pore have been studied and picked on one too many times. The paint peels it’s wretched sanitized color to reveal another layer of sanitized coloring.

Except the freaks who can never love anyone. Who are they to me? Why are they so familiar and why does that sound like me? Am I incapable of love because of my freakish ways.

What are my freakish ways? Sitting here alone in the oh so darkness of space’s empty void listening to 1’s and 0’s coming from my computer. Looking but not seeing the things around me. Realizing that there exist a world that I know nothing about but which I live in every day.

Do I think that all is lost? No. Nothing is ever lost. They are only misplaced only to be found again by time and space or the hobos down the street digging through the trash or the coroner and crime scene investigators that come to pick up your body.

Yellow. Yellow is the color of my eyes and the sun that drives my existence. Yellow is the light that guides my life and shines down on me and brings me out of the darkness that I encase myself in day in and day out.

Hemititude is a way of life that no one understands but everyone takes part in. Separating themselves from the world to just get some quality time to themselves to just think things over. Reflecting on life and the people that they come in contact with.

Subterranean Homesick Aliens that get lost in space for they do not have the maps of the stars to guide their ways. Soaring aimlessly through a dark void, hoping to make that much needed right turn to the place where they belong.

Life is just a right turn a way. One turn can just change your life. It will make you uproot the whole existence you have been living for the past quarter century and make you want to make a left turn instead.

Left eye bleeding the saltine liquid of the sea. It clouds the vision. Can’t see straight, can’t see what’s real and what is fake. Hard to make anything out when you are blinded in the eye that counts the most.

What is fake when everything around you is fake? Is fakeness real or is being real fakeness? I try to be real once but then I felt so naked so I covered myself up with my plastic skin and showed myself for all to see.

All night long I dream of the day that I will never have to have these feelings again. Thinking about you will no longer cause me pain. Thinking about time when all will be right with the world, which means that all will be chaotic.

The Angry Inch frightens me to be who I should never be. I am not who I am or who I proclaim to be. I am not a hermit but nothingness that surrounds the particles in the air.

I stay up late to ramble on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on.

I gave a piece to the rockstar that I’ve always dreamed to be. Feeling the world with the pretentiousness that I deemed as art, but it is nothing but empty words whispered to the tunes of the wind.

I’d walk a thousand miles through thick and thin to get to the places I’ve always been, seeing the emptiness that fills the distance lands of fantastic imagery that lies in the mind of a sick alien from beyond.

Walking quickly ahead with no turns insight, head lowered, barreling through the streets pushing people away so they don’t get hurt from my idleness and indecision as to who I am.

If I could hold you tonight, I wouldn’t know what to say. I don’t know what to say, cause I don’t know how I feel about you. Should I push you away or should I hold you close and never let you go.

I’m a little bit angry at the cards that life have dealt with me. If it was 5 card draw I bid all I had and get 4 new cards to push my luck. When in doubt, risk everything.

Matchboxes are the little gifts of life. They bring forth the greatest gift ever awarded to the Neanderthals and Cro-Magnons. It took them generations to find the little secret of the fire of life and now it comes in a box.

Sitting on a beach with the sands between my toes squishing with the salty sea soothing my foot with the moisture of something cold and cool quenching the thirst that spawns through my throat that breathes for life and death.

I’m a creep creeping my way down the street to where you live, spying you, stalking you. Drawing in everything you did, smelling the scent that you emit from that little bottle that you cherish.

Every breath you take I take with you for you are one with me. Our souls are connected like the world is connected with the ocean. We are one with each other and one with all and with the world around us. Your pain is my pain.

What the hell are we doing here? That is a good question to ask whenever you have a chance to answer it. Do you have an answer to this life long question?

Why do you ask yourself questions that you know you can’t answer? It is just a waste of time and valuable brain cells, especially when you have only two, and one is fizzling out.

I don’t belong here or so they say. But I ask you, who does belong here? You, him, her, he, she, me? We are all just pawns in this little game called life.

Life is in transition. Always changing with the beat of the drum. Bam bam bam bam bam, goes the drum and so does our life. Changing with the beat, changing with each song, moving along with each pulse that drives our existence.

Hallelujah fills the air as we bring ourselves to realize that life is just life and is nothing more. There is nothing behind or ahead of us. There is nothing but this life that we have, so make the best of it.

Buckley died but his music goes on and on. With a breath of Hallelujah he survives in us all. Drake drowned in his tears, but he leaves his tear stained mark with the words that brings us hope, joy, sadness, and love.

Love is just a figment of our imagination. A scientific gesture explained by a series of synapses firing and missing and firing and missing and firing and missing causing us to be hot and confused with the person in front of us.

With wavy dark brown hair, you woo me with your smile and your little charms. I will succumb to them no more, for these games has gone on too long for me to handle. Just leave me with whatever dignity I have remaining.

The game of love is a deadly game that no one should play. We are never fit to fall in love, cause we are not made to deal with the pain of what love leaves us. Nothing.

Nothing in me, nothing surrounds me. Nothing clouds my mind as all my thoughts leave me brain, travels through my arms to my tap dancing fingers which put my thoughts into words for all to read.

A Ghost Is Born every time the sun goes down the horizon and the glorious moon hovers ever so lightly in the sky above. It casts an eerie glow on us all, lighting us from within.

Forever Tonight I will think of you because after tonight you are gone from my mind and my life. You no longer exist to play with my whims and my desires. You are nothing to me.

The fire has burned out in my heart and in my loins. I no longer feel for anything. All the warmth is gone, replaced only with the ice cool thrills that once filled the world with ice.

Those were the simpler times. Times of extinction. Nothing existed but the natural elements. On the brink of life, with all the potential that everything can bring, we came, we saw, we conquered.

With us, the world is going to end. With us, the world will die before our bright ball of fire will get a chance to take us out on its own. The ever expanding bulb will no longer expand to feel the warmth of life.

Life Aquatic is how life should be. Ever flowing so fluidly and so smoothly. It is just a dream to swim through life like a fish never getting lured in by the artificiality and the rotting squiggliness of worms and tackle.

Details are the things that matter in life. You can go on telling a story with the major plot points and it will never be remembered. But if you give us all the details, no matter how small and minutes, the story breathes to life and is forever burned into our memories.

No stanza will be more than two lines long as I write this little rambling of consciousness to show that I am alive and well and kicking with the wicked dreams to be Almost Famous.

I’m Not Sorry for all the things I’ve done in my life. There shouldn’t be anything I should be sorry for. Nothing. It is my life, I live and die by my decisions and you shouldn’t be sorry for living a life compiled of your decisions.

Morris, borris, chorus, goes the song and the bong with the smoke is a joke to choke on the cream of the dream in the team of chess is like breasts on a chick with a bic who writes the tune to the balloon that floats in the sky like the cry of tears for fears.

Incomprehensible psycho babble that rhymes with the times and the tune in the June fever that burns wildly through the population of chickens that are slaughtered for the holy sake of chicken noodle soup.

I’m getting tired of your broken promises that you make to me to heal my heart. It just breaks my heart more and more, and I’ve smarten up to not take them to heart no more.

I can’t take it no more goes the song by those 3 little women who are no longer together for they are in the rift of life that everyone goes through once they think they finally know who they are.

Both sides now is how we should see things so we can get a better view of things to understand. It’ll help us with the judgments and the prejudgments that we pass on to each other and us above all.

yeah yeah yeah is the anthem that we sing whenever we are lectured on the things that we know to be true. no no no is the anthem that we sing when we are told what to do.

Wait, they don’t love you like I love you so why do you even bother spending time with them. All they do is make fun of you and play with you heart, melting the glue that once held your poor heart together.

Wait, they don;t love you like I love you so why do I even bother loving you when it isn’t me that you love? It is the ultimate answer that I would like to find, but it just gotten to the point where I really don’t care.

The silent treatment will help me with my cause to rid me of these pathetic feelings of loyalty and lust and horniness to be touched and held and yearnings to just feel at all.

Numb. Dumb. Bum on the streets fighting for the treats that everyone greets with the mediocrity of trash that brings for the life and our livelihood that we just throw everywhere, leaving our marks and our existence for the world to see.

If that’s love, I can’t stand it. I can’t stand it goes the song that plays on my radio. It is oh so true that love is something that I want but it is something I can’t stand, especially when one is dreading what is to come with the craziness of love.

Summer is the season of warmth and heat. It melts all the coldness that is within me and lets me feel for once. Feelings of strength, confidence, and apathy for all things and everyone in life.

Boo hoo goes the message that I write in this late night journal, crying for that audience that escapes my grasp every other night. Looking for a sympathetic ear, looking for someone to understand.

What if the world were a little more perfect? Will it be a better place for me? What is perfection when everyone has such a skewed perspective of what life is?

There is no perfection and that is perfect. Everyone is different. Everything is different. The differences add to the spice of life like paprika adds a dash of something to the chicken before me.

Approaching three in the AM and I am not tired nor am I blinking to rest these tired eyes that just glow dim and dim with each minute, drying with the air, leaving it with no moisture or tears.

Tears are nature’s way of telling us that we need to wash our eyes. To get a new perspective on thing and on life, tears will bring that to us. Through joy and sadness, tears let us see clearer.

Dead leaves and the dirty ground is what I walk on during these long lonely journeys to find myself and to clear my head and rid myself of negative thoughts and reflections in my airs.

With my music blasting and my constant typing, I keep the neighbors above me awake. They wonder what am I doing, what am I typing that cannot wait till the break of day.

Six Feet Under is therapy that everyone needs and go through once during their life. If they are lucky, they will go through it more then once. It will bring tears and again, it will change our perspective.