how many times will i say the same thing in different words before i wake up. perhaps this is the meaning of life. or perhaps we are all saying the same thing in different words, and in this sense, are all trying to wake up. everything screams,sqeauls, or wails at me before i give it any attention. darling I cannot talk to you. allow me to capture you my little firefly, so i may keep you to myself.light up the skies for the little children who watch the yard with enchantment. what are you trying to remind me of? those innocent little dreams of mine? where the ideas leaked out of my mind into that little machine that created beautiful sceneries for me? and now it is gone and dead? the scenes are no longer alive, and neither or those precious ideas I held ever so tightly. oh but we cannot have it all, than the children would have nothing. and we were never meant to be halves, what is there to complete ourselves.
for whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea
mr. e.e. cummings
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Saturday, February 03, 2007
even the trains are blue at night
everythings coloured blue in the frost of winter. i wipe the biting marks of the wind off my face and rub my knuckles warm before coming in.no one is on the roads during the freezing night, everyone is staying in. the roads are stained white with winter, only one light on in these houses called homes. this is your home, they call it surburbia. the winters are too cold, summers too hot, obligations run deep and parallel with family. you say i don't have any friends, but that's not true. you say i don't let anyone in, but that's not true either. sing a song. your aunt is wrong, mother's harsh, father's trying, brother's gone. my soggy cigarette stub says otherwise. it says to me, darlin' let the smoke in, roll the window down, let the cold air in.
let the cold air in.
who is to say this blog is useless? it is my poem, my prose...written a little differently letting the stanzas form as quickley as the thoughts in my head.
let the cold air in.
who is to say this blog is useless? it is my poem, my prose...written a little differently letting the stanzas form as quickley as the thoughts in my head.
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