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AJ Aug 2015
A- She is just like me. A leader. A strong, independent, bisexual woman, she controls the alphabet from this end, and everyone respects her.

B-He's a nice guy, a bit pretentious, but nothing too special. The first time I saw Friends, I new that Ross was literally the letter B incarnated.

C- B's best friend, goes by male pronouns, but is gender fluid sometimes. He is much more genuine than B.

D- One of A's closest friend. She is cool, and kind of like a bad *** English teacher.

E- A ****. Your typical school bully. He's dating D.

F- E's wing-man, but like the stereotypical wing-man, he is kind hearted, but too much of a shy follower. And he likes D.

G- H's brother. Good student, slightly over weight, and just as homosexual as his sister.

H- The "mom" of the friend group. She is smart and supportive. My favorite lesbian of the alphabet.

I- A real cool dude. Spiky hair and sunglasses. He likes to lean against brick walls and just look cool. Very cool.

J- He is K's best friend.

K- She is J's best friend.

L- He hangs out with M, but not too much because he really isn't found of her littler sister N. He's too much of a wimp for my taste.

M- She is a really independent confident girl. She goes on double dates with O, P, and her sister N. She has a side thing going on with the letter A.

N- She lives in the shadow of her sister. She kind of reminds me of my own sister.

O- He is P's best friend, and always tells him what to do. He reminds me of E, but they've never met.

P- Let's O push him around. He hangs out with O, M, and N. But his true love is Q.

Q- She is quiet, but strong. She is madly in love with P. They sneak out together a lot. She has over protecting parents.

R- She is the leader of the Q-R-S friend group. A transgender and asexual bad ***. She supports Q and P, but not S and T

S- Tries to listen to her older friend R, but is just a good kid making bad decisions. She has a HUGE crush on both T and U.

T- Loves U. Strong male, plays football and works at a car wash.

U- She's a princess. Very quiet and polite. In a relationship with T, but I don't know her true intentions.

V- U's older sibling. A-gender and a CEO of some big business.

W- Same personality as H, but not as motherly, and bisexual.

X- The third wheel to the X-Y-Z clan. Also agender, and really just a fly on the wall. They sees a lot, but really don't like to socialize. But they really like going to the zoo.

Y-  Z's beta. Her best friend, and wife. They are ride and die ******* for life.

Z- Just like A. Exactly like A. Only she is in a committed relationship with Y. She controls the alphabet from this end, and everyone respects her.
Sophia Apr 2018
how far must she travel
to rediscover
her purpose
her purpose
what a preposterous concept

neither rest nor return
are purpose

neither love nor hate
are purpose

neither this nor that
so then what
what is it
what is the answer
to this unquantifiable question

perhaps it rests
in the caverns of her dreams
in the caverns of her subconscious
synesthetic
mind
seeing colors for numbers
and mango puddles in the rain

it was always her imaginative spirit
that activated her forehead
which wrinkled with the tides of
hurt pain sadness glory god

and she was told
to soften that sternness
soften it until she was nonexistent

but instead she asked
what are these things
what are their purpose
besides drinking foreheads and wringing potential
and piping out excuses for this and for that
for crimson activities and
claret affairs
Amrita G Jan 2021
“He doesn’t even care to keep the knowledge of her possessions a secret, not the least worried about it being stolen”
“What’s worse, is that everyone knows his treasure exists. It’s common knowledge in town”
“How long will it take to get stolen?”
“It’s a matter of days, if you ask me.

He was, however, smiling in the corner. He coerced the enemy into being his friend.  This is why he doesn’t actually disclose himself to anyone, because she might be misunderstood, like what was unravelling right before his eyes. This time however, the misunderstanding just helped him protect his real treasure, something he thought no one could possess because……………

What if you need to think a certain way to know something; and you can’t think that way without feeling or experiencing something else. If that’s true, so much of this world remains hidden in sight, and we don’t even know its hidden.

You can, to an extent, disguise what arises from material belongings immaterially. That’s what makes the key to your locked doors. The keys to your secrets and trust. Our experiences may dictate the way we feel. Look closer however, and there will always be these cracks on the edges of interpretation, these nuances in feelings, small differences that stem out into larger and larger branches until you have at your disposal- uniqueness.

So, here is a complex network of questions and possible answers deconstructed to portray different perspectives of personality, trust and secrets.

Let’s start with trust. It should ideally start with mutual respect and admiration.   Most things fade away, so in reality you are not trusting the other person, you trust yourself to be hopeful enough to believe trust will not wither through time, which is why it may seem like it’s your fault or centered towards you when you are betrayed of trust.

Even the reasons for choosing why we trust others is vastly different for each person. It goes to show how ephemeral our mind is at the microscopic level., almost like no one can truly know us. The reaction of others and their understanding of you may be an external input. But after that the interpretation is yours. And interpretation is slowly built over cycles of overlapping feelings and subtle thoughts.
Can we use this as a “key” to explore parts of ourselves whilst keeping them invisible to others? Can we recover old feelings or find out what means a lot to us, but we remain ignorant to?

Many things that matter deep inside, tend to have a personal lock, like an unspoken connection, or a bittersweet memory we like to visit. The most interesting part about these is that the key for some of these is unpredictable! Any future incident could somehow serve as an access to it, which is what makes personal locks so magical. No one can possess it because of no one, sometimes not even yourself, knows it's meaning to you. Such a key is truly unique, two people may go through the same thing, but for one person alone, that experience could serve as a key.  Here, an experience from the outside world can awaken memories, thoughts that we inadvertently treasured. It can, in a sense, almost transport us to a different timeline.

The phenomenon of getting goosebumps from listening to a piece of music (called frisson), and experiencing a surge of sensory feeling could be a doorway to some great things and could be a sign of higher levels of creativity. When you re-listen to a song you hadn’t listened to in many years, you can relive the time you originally heard it to startling detail. You may notice newer things about memories, be aware of nuanced feelings. Essentially, it becomes something that’s only yours, because you can’t predict how you yourself will be. The only key for such a secret is a unique reaction to an external input.

When you listen to this song, even ambiguously (not attaching it to any particular person or experience), even then when you later hear it, it will be infused with meaning. Why? Because the environment around you at that time possessed some emotional meaning, even if you didn’t know it. It became like recovering a part of you. Like recovering your own perspective on what’s in front of everybody.

Suppose instead of attaching significance, you simply create scenarios in your mind. You just imagine instances and do this repeatedly. Over time, the song’s original meaning will tarnish away. Such imagination gives temporary satisfaction, and even though one can imagine a variety of different scenes and emotions; imagination itself, feels the same. It does not carry any value by itself. It would seem that listening to a song a couple of times and then years later seems to be the world’s best time machine, but when we overplay it, and tamper it using imagination, neural networks get diluted and may not be serve as a very effective train of reminiscence anymore. *^


Mulling things over in our mind in loops can change almost everything about it- it may change a happy sentence into a sad one, a normal experience into a special one, and now these emotions that have been created by you, are like small filters that complicate further experiences.
Consider that two people go through the same experiences from birth. They may not feel each experience to the same degree. The second point is that subtler feelings are experienced by each of them. One may react more heavily, and the other may have auxiliary feeling in more magnitude than the other. Though these differences may be minimal at the start, these subtle thoughts become triggers, just like the initial experience.
Look at what’s happened. Now the seed of subsequent thoughts and emotion is no longer EXTERNAL. Its internalized. As they grow, though material interactions give rise to initial waves of thoughts, our lives are culminated by infinite intertwined feelings and emotions- so for each material interaction, a hundred immaterial ones are processed subconsciously. A symphony can’t be broken down to violins, piano, and drums separately. The feeling that arises when they are played in unison is simply “different” though its just a conglomeration of its parts. This is similar to our mind, and the concept of “The whole is greater than its parts”. What’s more is that the thoughts occurs in different order, and a different order creates a different story.
The concept of “personality” is viewed as abstract sometimes”.  Like character is something that describes the mind, rather than the experience. But this is contradictory, as “Personality” is immaterial, while the experience, the derivative, is material. So, there is a possibility that during this invisible conversion process, our internal reactions and what we make of things in our mind may gradually shape our personality more than the experience itself.


In a strange way, that makes us original. Perhaps not completely original, but it’s possible that no two people are the same, even if they have gone through the same things.
But since the development of originality is subconscious, let us look at conscious examples to put it into application:

Often, there is a part of a song that appeals to us, a favorite part.  When we ask ourselves why that particular melody appeals to us, it may be hard to pinpoint the source of what produced your liking in that part.  Sure, it may mean something like “freedom” or “joy” of remind you of a memory. But why does it mean a specific emotion to you? This is an example of how something that has no direct connection with a memory could possibly trigger a feeling. This is a magical occurrence. It’s extraordinary that a melody can awaken in you a unique emotion, that others may not react to in the same way. It goes to portray how subtly different our minds are. Furthermore, when we create things out of that feeling we derive from the music- make a story based on the feeling, write a new song, or even play it on an instrument- now you have made something that is unique from the depths of your mind. Your own subconscious interpretation.  
Frequency of frisson was positively correlated with overall Openness to Experience, as well as five of its six sub facets: Fantasy, Aesthetics, Feelings, Ideas, and Values. *This may also mean that extensive feeling, or sensing is related to creativity.

Sensory influx, the visual imagery, nostalgia, all point towards creativity, and many renown creative geniuses draw on their sensitivity to fuel creative processes.

Highly sensitive people tend to be more creative, as the depth of feeling offers scope for exploration. The interpretation and emotion felt greatly corresponds to the creation of ideas, and is similar to how interpretation even creates association between senses, or synesthesia.
Infact, drawing on nostalgia can increase imaginative processes


You might have heard of the term “synesthesia”, where sensory experiences get interconnected. A person with grapheme synesthesia, for example, associates letters and numbers with colors. A person with musical synesthesia sees colors effuse out of musical notes. Some synesthetes taste words, smell numbers, etc. It is also a fact* that Synesthetes don’t necessarily share the same sensory experience-though there are commonalities ( ex: most synesthetes associate either black or white with zero), the difference in perception is linked to the environment of growth, childhood*, and if its occurrence is natural, then synesthesia is developed in childhood or at birth.

A Symptom of synesthesia is also reading sentences that seem personified, as though a stranger with different personalities are narrating them. It is interesting to relate this to how there might be different personas in our own head, and sometimes constantly make commentary on our life! It’s like seeing yourself through different perspectives, except these perspectives have defined forms, which makes it easier to assign little quirks to them. If this helps us sense and perceive the world better, and makes us see through multi-colored glasses, it can be very creatively satisfying to have internal conversations, in a positive and uplifting way. We can be a stranger to our own experience, and wouldn’t a change of view be enlightening?

Synesthesia also, may be linked to creativity and metaphors, * and is in a way a example of consciously coming up with original sensory interconnections, a creative process that becomes part of character.  It's connecting something unrelated and different, and an original combination of connection.

So the rearrangement of feelings, and extent to which people sense and feel can contribute to original creations. It is no surprise that many artists and musicians have synesthesia.

Such experiences, with music, nostalgia and conditions like synesthesia are examples of a how we interpret and sense can consciously contribute to originality.


The bottom line is that synesthesia obtains its roots from childhood, but morphs into something complex enough to blur lines of emotion. The proportion of how things are mixed is unique. That proportion is the starting line for all character, and the proportion can be random and unique.
Thoughts feel so diverse and interwoven, that experiencing different facets of it itself can seem synesthetic. Seeing a neon sky, for instance, may not just bring happiness or excitement, but very specific sentience, and a connection to memory, even if it has never been a part of your life at any point of time. The neon sky could mean regret and eccentricity, and flashes of senses may correspond to it. You may feel the aesthetic of a place to strange degrees, and sometimes a simple scenery can seem “wrong” or “sinister”.


  “Why does the neon sky seem eccentric?” “why are roses connected to a past memory that had nothing to do with roses?”

These questions have some intangible meaning behind them. So, it’s not just that people perceive things differently, it’s that their reality itself, a culmination of perceptions is unique, and so are thoughts. And don’t thoughts and ideals shape character in some way? Don't these interpretations become a part of you? A filter for how you perceive the world?


Some song forms a golden thread link with some intense feeling which is connected to a memory you never knew you possessed (this memory may be fictional even) which is linked to a whole little city in your world.  Everything means differently. And as we think and think, these meanings become fine-tuned, and create emotions, thoughts and perspectives that shape our individuality. The essence is that your character may have obtained its roots from the world, but your proceedings, both on the inside and outside, are truly yours. And gradually, proceedings reflect character. More than the roots. It’s a many layered mind that could seem impossible to strip down.

Memories can be similar, but the sequence of memories and thoughts, will likely not be the same.


Here we gently skim the daunting surface of the philosophical idea of “Fictional realism”. A main idea here is to try and question what the definition of something has to be to be considered real. We say “It was a dream, not reality” But did it not feel real? When we read a book, or a movie, and voraciously delve into fictional landscapes, does it not truly feel like we are integrated into it, or rather, it is integrated into us? In that case, since we are real and it is now a part of us, can it be real too? Or can it be real, simply because it exists in our minds? Love and loathing also exist in our minds, but we regard them as a real thing, pulsating with its repercussions. Do we regard something as real only if it has a scope for action? Or if it’s something we can touch or see? In that case, the world will be limited, and there would be a loss of explanation for what gives rise to those actions. It would be like saying “imagination seeds reality”.

Memories and thoughts can be similar, but the sequences of them, even if  slightly  different can grow to be hugely dissimilar. If we can consciously create things when exposed to sensory information, why can't we consider the possibility of subconscious creation of individual character?
Cody Edwards Feb 2011
For all I know,
At the atomic level
There aren't any dreams
Except possibly this one.
© Cody Edwards 2011
TC Jun 2013
freckles clung
like manic-pixie stardust,
spackled whispers
an unfolding fractal
of brimming dresser drawers
old pictures and mix cds,
we could only ever do
what teenagers were supposed to.

smushed crabapple handholds,
moxy and sadism hard-won,
no crash course in platonicness,
our stained glass eroded
into a beach
frozen in unsummer,
opiates dull senses,
a synesthetic void
exchanging echoes of echoes,
a cacophony of empty
distilling as it leaves
in whisks of 2 a.m.s,
honey-laced whiskey,

if the sky murmurs one
last love poem, it isn't
to us but our
moment of infinity,
of blind faith
irredeemably lost,

that forever of apex
where the line between
falling and flying
blurs.
Hands Jun 2012
I arrived--
though I needn't a formal invite,
for you and I, we are two old friends.
Companions walking along
a similar trail.
The leaves distort and distress the
yellow and gleaming light of the
victorious Sun, who has once again
conquered Night and all
her iniquities.
Scents and colors fill the air,
pinks and reds and greens mix and match
and blend together, forming
a rich atmosphere of synesthetic remarkableness.
Each atom and molecule
of the wind
shivers and shakes atop their
invisible chariots,
perhaps the true location of Atlas
and those great, big hunks of
shoulders;
"Man, what a man."
Take it because you know you like it--
we are social creatures,
creatures of logic
of habit
creatures of horribly idiosyncratic and idle instinct,
rulers of fleshy bodies
which we hardly understand.
The Sun grimaces as it
retreats back to the negative air,
once again,
not to poke its radiant face out until
the next morning.
The Moon came shimmering out,
smiling furtively and compactly,
looking down like
my oldest confidante.
After all,
who else but our fair
Luna atop the stars
is the keeper of all our deepest
and most primal
secrets?
In the cover of her noxy cloak
we sin and hide,
pushing every secret under and between
the cracks in her space,
patching up time and
keeping dark and brooding Atlas
good company.
"You're one of the few great guys."
Oh, my fat and failing Atlas,
lover for the Night and
of my night,
you are a temporary stop on
my trail,
a brief twilight in my
life's journey.
The Sun creeps its
spindly, golden fingers under
the cloak of the Moon,
Night: the stitchings and
sewings of the sins of mortal men.
Playfully, the light stretches out,
first dancing along the stage of the horizon,
then inching closer,
desperate for living contact,
for the greatest warmth of
over 2 billion hearts
all beating at once--
perfectly,
in time.
Our world is a note on
this Cosmic sheet music;
you are barely a splotch on the sheet.
Our existence is the single beat
out of infinite others,
without a beginning but
possibly and end.
I know that
there will be twists in my path,
bending and curving to avoid the
stars' wrath and the Suns'
might,
but,
might it be
that our two trails
are simply
not meant to meet?
Sam WG Sep 2014
Through the act of speaking vividly, we enter into a flirtation with the domain of the imagination.
The ability to associate sounds, or the small mouth noises of language, with meaningful internal images, is a synesthetic activity.
I'm reading Food of The Gods and I love this little quote. It is almost poetic.
POSSIBLE Apr 2016
What does samkhya have to do with yoga?
Dual teaching like I told you twice

They say theres….

2 eternal principles manifest in the universe
nature and the self, knowledge like pursua and prakriti different and yet same in this verse
Salvation through transcenscion duality is false i ought to mention
see through it like fallacy, I bless you no curse now apphrension

like flower prints we impresstoo

Lying and violence distract you from your higher purpose
You think you got swag psh better listen thrice so you know you heard this

the only style you got is the life you gotta clean up
clean up your lifestyle , clean up your style, clean up your lifestyle, clean up yo …. liberation comes from

Samadhi : contemplate : enlightened like we : got no hate upon me
but first you gotta meditate, dhyana  and control your breathe
asana  like my chest is pranayamic some speak false **** like they got no teeth,  these thoughts they squeeze but

The churning of the mind cesses when you find
time to practice seeing the self you framing in kind

Epileptic I seizure mind, so epic synesthetic ,
that ***** divine storm like a portal, shorn my form as a mortal

Come and See the world as it truly is
Ill exist till I die, no reincarnation for I and I
namaste  , en lakesh multi-lingual in these cypher cries

Valid means of knowledge:
Did you observe?
Could you infer?
Do they speak with authority?
Could you preach the analogy?

Just because you don’t see
Doesn’t mean it won’t be
Just because you don’t see
doesn’t mean that the **** won’t be

How do I know I am not the only person in the universe
I know my experience
They display markers
We speak we write We **** we fight
We wish We cry we live we die
so maybe were all conscious

looking at you like
maybe you bought this,
cautious we want this, auspice truth

Smoke gone ghost like I haunt this
Is sound More important Than its Meaning?
Owen Phillips Feb 2013
Like glorious autumn follows carefree summer
You make me want to love again
At this moment I am on the upward arc of my heavy sine wave,
And all troughs, crests, and in between coexist
To predict would be to build a separate reality
An alternate timeline where logic follows the limited patterns of human rationale
But the sun's fingers on the treetops write minute programs into the corneas
And I watch them roll around my field of vision, shifting back and forth in unease
I smell old times that never were
How could that have been me?
How do I forget everything?

I'll live forever in this instant
For past and future emanate infinitely from now
And every ounce of effort I spend anticipating
Draws me down the arc to suffering
The impermanence of bliss, death's painful degradation
Even now it festers sharply in my right *******
Despite my calm certainty that I'm
Staring out into the infinite synesthetic landscapes of jazz and poetry

But the forces of control over us do not blind us
We ride fleeting waves of glory because in their brief moment they are all
Rising above the moon in the ecstasy mere words grasp impotently after
Mere human me never gets the satisfaction of disintegration for he fears his death
But powerful energy me
Eternal and all pervasive
Shall know for certain the bliss of abyss
Even in the mortal kiss of a few seconds' carnal joy it is death which ties us together

When our dichotomies are satisfied is victory true or do we in fact separate ourselves further from the ultimate reality?
Oneness can never be desired for to wish for it is to destroy it
The implication that there is something there to wish for oneness
Contradicts the very idea
But these differences are mere illusions
Contained within the singular presence of all that which there is nothing without
Nor even existence at all
For it encompasses the totality
It is the mere fact that anything ever existed
And it is the void into which shines no light
Enters no soul
It is the ground on which our entire dramaturgy stands
WHAT IS IT?
Will there ever be an answer?
It can't be God, though it is what is meant by "God"
It can't be defined because it is the substance of definition
It isn't the place we go when we die for it is all places
It is place

I can cast out my net into the whirlwinds of conscience and substance
And feel that I've latched onto it
And it can never slip away for it is all I've ever been
But I stir the ocean of love and the sediments are suspended till I can no longer see it
Like a fish can't see the ocean

In metaphor, in narrative, all is truth
requiEM Jan 2017
I barely survived the Devils hour last night

There was music playing in my ears for awhile, a strange combination of tunes I became enveloped in

They cushioned my thoughts as I read, blocking out the birds that started chirping out of turn, and the crosswalk beeping every three minutes on the dot

The reason I almost didn't survive, however, had nothing to do with the music or the story or the crosswalk

I heard something coming for me

A shadow, but I heard it
It comes for me some nights
There's no pattern like the crosswalk signal
I've fought it before, so I am usually ready for it
But this time I forgot to bring my armor to the orchestra

I came exposed, in an oversized Sherpa coat
You see, I was cold
The armor would have chilled my skin
I'm so sorry I forgot it, my shield too
I was unprepared

The synesthetic darkness crept over me, like an invisible thunderstorm, or the lowest note on a bass guitar, or the smell of burnt toast

I could not fight it
I am sorry
I will try harder

Do not forget your armor, they said
We know certain things will always happen, they said  
One, is that the crosswalk signal will always beep every three minutes
The other, is that the darkness will come, and it will prey on those who are not prepared.
TC Mar 2014
(I. Summer ‘ 13)

Freckles clung
like manic-pixie stardust,
spackled whispers
an unfolding fractal
of brimming dresser drawers
old pictures and mix cds,
we could only ever do
what teenagers were supposed to.

Smushed crabapple handholds,
moxy and sadism hard-won,
no crash course in platonicness,
our stained glass eroded
into a beach
frozen in unsummer,
opiates dull senses,
a synesthetic void
exchanging echoes of echoes,
a cacophony of empty
distilling as it leaves
in whisks of 2 a.m.s,
honey-laced whiskey—

if the sky murmurs one
last love poem, it isn't
to us but our
moment of infinity,
of blind faith
irredeemably lost,

that forever of apex
where the line between
falling and flying
blurs.

(II. Fall ’13)

Spines and ribs
don’t do it justice
you raptured me
both ways to Sunday,
built me up to shatter jaws,
car windows—me
bar stool battered,
you my perfect carpenter,
smile with wooden teeth
(you made them yourself)
so stain me the color of
cherry trees
and unbliss my empty spine.

(III. Winter ’13)

Mildew clutched tight,
hollow-*****, manic thrusting,
marionette-faced, barrow-lunged,
nails to the bone-gristle,
lips raw with spit-polish,
redacted eyes, redacted eyes--
we are palpable creatures,
transient drifters of soulspeck,
one unraveling the other constructing,
sallow truth would dissolve skin.
founder a self, rusty copper
with adamantine eyes,
steel core unbroken by absence,
drown in opposite directions,
oceanwater salve, yes
calloused tongues jostle,
ribbed in salt and rust.

Unlaced corset,
striped sweater,
grunged trainline veins
run on endlessly,
a clock,
abandoned in the middle,
I think once
it very much mattered.
There are stars here!
There are stars here, my friends!
And as I lie among the streetlight-
-cast penumbras staring at the
Pentahedral crystal hammock jungle gym
    I am with them!
I am with them in wonder
In joy in amazement in ecstasy in open-
-eyed revelation of truth
As I realize I was born not
In a city of shadows
But in a city of such blinding brightness
That I could never marvel at the darkness
             and the darkness is beautiful here.

Perfect halogen moonbeam outlines of imperfect
Bodies frolicking in selfprescribed madness
Spinning in the chemical centrifuge
Until lights become light and
            encircles us
       endlessly
Creating its own central outward
                Gravity
As I become you become me
And we sail this endless sea of
                Blackness
And we fall ever deeper into the great
               Singularity
everconsuming everlasting
        All Encompassing
Feeling Grasping Gasping
            Growing
                               Seeing
                                              Darkness.

I­nstruments of depravity
Forged great, twisted
Spinal curvatures held proud
And feared by the mighty
For our words poison their youth
Revealing our shadowy enlightenment
Clarifying with murky water
Promises of intangible tangibilities.
Beautifying chaotic tangled
Masses forming perfection in
         nebulous
       amorphism.
                     Downward, Downward
                        Circling ever downward
                           Spiraling veraciously downward
Downward the holy!
Downward the giving!
Downward unto Heaven!
Downward unto Hell!
Downward unto Creation!
                  Down.
Where the soul becomes concrete
And the concrete vague
                                                 synesthetic
                                                     ­                     bliss.
     The Darkness is beautiful here.

6 September 20l0
Copyright 2010 @ Tyler Ryan Rodriguez
Pearson Bolt Aug 2013
though i’ve never smoked a cigarette
i’ve always loved the smell of tobacco.

it reminds me of shows in seedy concert halls
and the gum my father chewed to get sober

minty-fresh nicorette replacing the scent
of the wine that imbued his every breath.

i recall my grandpa, the way he sat on the porch, surrounded
by nana’s garden, listening to the songs of birds

the stub of his last cigarette, poised between frail fingers.
as it withered, he withered with it.

their walls stained yellow from the nicotine
like some vintage sepia photograph.

through synesthetic memories, i can taste the
way cigarette smoke wafted through the summer air when

my friends and i sat on our back porch, reminiscing,
nostalgia suffocating, tightening its grip like a vise about our windpipes.

i’ve never even smoked a cigarette
but they always remind me of who i used to be

before i lost what was left of my innocence.
Alin Apr 2015
Farewell my bike blue
I know the day would come to say goodbye
as it goes with any loved one
My eyes still searching like a hungry creature
every point on the street every blue is you
a hope of light but I know you are gone

I mourn today and share it with the world I live in
the blues that my heart sadly sings is for the departure
of the synesthetic joy we exchanged
during the star-years of change

I received the learning of each and every moment
by seeing you again amongst many others
standing there humbly
waiting for me
as if one of the others

We always knew a secret to shine for each other
You as the blue of the morning sky to release
the heaviness coming from the mind to deliver
a shine of hope in less than a moment of recognition

so way I convert to a light to alight light
and fully become one with you again

we come from a world of soul
you and I
not different in the essence of awareness
definitions separate us just
In our world all things are alive

I knew this would happen soon
three days long I received signs from the universe
that you will be gone
could not /did not want to believe
I did my best to keep the key in my heart
and until today
when a moment of courage was lost
when you were out of sight
and I lost

learning my new body unsupported
collecting  my new mind like
laundry spread on a field
a field where I wish to  kick a ball only
they say you become normal finally
like us you can cry
like us you can feel tired
like our period wish for chocolate
and halt and stop and accept that you cannot swing from a star
why not add a bag of chips to it and a TV screen
I politely refuse each time
I say then I have my bike blue waitin for me sorry I gotta go now

They try  and I try
to understand what they say
Do they mean they can learn things without becoming things?
but do they -those who assign normal -
not know that I have not enough intelligence to do that?
they also see I fail each time I try
as I failed today and also yesterday and also the day before
I don’t believe in normality definitions
no  we cannot be normalized as such or domesticated
but love
because love

Today when I got blurred he showed up
as predicted
at the side of a shadowy street
he gave me a slight sight look just
In the suit of Mr. Passerby
one of the innocent silhouettes doing as if he is not meant to be a silhouette  i said
not suspecting the angel of separation
they always take an appearance of someone
it is for a reason I know and I shall not cry
but I even cried

the reason let me prepare you well at least
for your go last night
It was a sign of a bird
so I cleaned your seat
changed your cover
emptied your bag
tidied your reserves
adjusted your saddle
on my return you were gone
with the key

I sang My Bike Blue written for you all night
still feel you under that star
and I know
I will never see you again
but the song brings us back
to salute us on your moves forward
let they be blessed on their journey
then I am happy - peaceful
each time a joy felt
I am touching your spirit again
for my bike blue  stolen today
Dust Bowl May 2015
You always leave out the end.
The part where the dream turns into a nightmare,
When the bodies turn to dust in your hand
Where what you thought were clothes were just threads.
The one where everything shrunk in the wash and all your favorite shirts are too tight on your ribcage.
You'll leave out the end
Hoping it won't come.

I never told you I live a synesthetic life
That we see red differently.
What appears to you as the fires of passion,
I can only see as a burning flame.

You skipped class on all the days a girl came in crying.
You keep drowning in waters that were never meant to hold you
And reaching for the first thing that looks like a lifeboat.
You pretend not to see the cracks in my hull
As if your broken words could ever heal my broken frame.
I pretend not to see the way your eyes still light up at the sound of her name.

Didn't anyone ever tell you you can't make homes out of people?
Why did no one warn you about the danger of resting your head where it cannot permanently lay?
You were the ropes I tied myself to the train tracks with
But all you could see in me was the beginning that the ending of her erased.
 And how can you tell me you understand
When you've only ever looked at me like a paperweight?
I'd hold you down until you were ready to let yourself be used again,
And then you'd leave me to sit and collect dust with all the others who were never enough to put the pieces back together for you.

Someday the end will feel like an accustomed coffin
And though you'll never quite fit comfortably,
You'll let it bury you,
Sitting dully in the dark of the Earth,
And you'll learn to only see the stabbing edges
As another numbing pain.
The apples in your garden will have all turned to snakes.

Roll my body in the rug or bury me under the floorboards.
I'll listen to your footsteps
Like a Heartbeat you swore would mean more if it stopped.
I'll sleep below
While the radio static sings lullabies only you can hear.
Lay me to rest under the floorboards
A funeral for a love never destined to last.
Lay me to rest under the floorboards we danced on,
But don't you dare drown me.
A response to Scheherazade by Richard Siken.
Aiden Williams Feb 2013
An unlikely pair
of equal beauty.
Art of two forms,
rarely seen together.
Visio-Audio,
Stimulation,
Communication,
Synesthetic fusion,
Joy amongst confusion.

Every word,
Brings forth a stroke of imagination,
every beat,
an unmatchable sensation.

Hues of music,
a trance in your mind.
An eclectic sound painting,
A dance of grandeur.
Philip Lawrence Aug 2017
A sumptuous lounge,
The deck burnished gold.
Twisted in a youthful tangle,
She awakes to fold a tanned calf
Beneath a taut thigh.
Arms extend upward and inspire
A long languid yawn.
Thick ebon tresses are askew
In a lovely rumpled mess
And beneath the lashes, the hue is one
With the mid-morning sea as
She pauses in a synesthetic trance
To face the white sails
Stark against their cerulean canvas,
And she smiles at the sound of sky.
Silent colors swaying away,
Like a blade that cuts the stars.
A far reach,
Yet close enough to blind.

The emotional synesthesia of my heart and mind,
Conspire to light the fires beneath,
And set myself ablaze on the flameless pyre.

I stare at the wares that I have created,
As I continue the debate with me, myself, and I.

Ticking away.
The timeless eyes.
Bear witness.
To the lightless skies.

The silent colors.
That only I can see.
These synesthetic linguistics.
That fall away.
Onto the synthetic pages.
To which you read.
this is the color black that i read with today.
I just follow what my mind tells me to say,
and hopefully one day,
the words that I write,
will cure this fight,
that I believe may never end,
if not but when this happens,
I may just  walk away,
because without this fight...
I wouldn't even know what to say.
Leo Jun 2017
How can I live brain damaged and disfigured like the lights seeping in through the walls don't trigger frightening synesthetic psychoses that exile my mind from the pinnacle of this oasis to the furthest borders of the existential void?
TheMeanBean Feb 2018
I’m depressed

I feel this constant pressure on my chest

Like I’m unable to exhale,

My body is starting to fail

My head is spinning,

My ears are ringing,

What is wrong?

I wish I knew

I’m feeling so blue.



Feeling blue, seeing blue

What does it sound like?

I don’t have a clue

I wish I was synesthetic

My ambitions, they’re so pathetic

Just want to somehow understand

Life is so bland, barely able to even stand

I am desperate for a sensation, anything

But instead my mind’s abandoning

Everything, my personality

It’s reaching its fatality

This abnormality in my mentality

Is eating me from within

Maybe I’ll just let it win

I just want to feel special

I just want to feel normal

I just want to feel.



I breathe, yet I’m not alive

Still going but I barely survive

I see, yet I’m blind

I keep fighting with my mind

I touch, yet I don’t feel

Barely even recognize what is real

I hang out in my mind all day,

The only place I find a way

A way to cope, but still suffer

I really need to find a new way to discover

How I need to handle this,

My brain shouldn’t be down in this abyss



I feel like I’m alone at sea

Completely isolated, nobody’s looking for me

The sky, the water, my mind- all blue

I don’t understand what I ever did to You

To deserve this kind of torture,

No lesson to be learned

“Oh no, I’m fine- no need to be concerned.”

It’s like it’s impossible to speak about,

I lie as if I expect a drought

Concerning the entire ocean

The only way I’ll ever get away,

Away from my emotion



I’m depressed

I feel this constant pressure on my chest

Like I’m unable to inhale,

My body is starting to fail

My head is ringing,

My eyes are spinning, 

What is wrong?

I wish I knew

I’m feeling so blue.



I’ll keep swimming, not yet seeing a horizon

I know this is ridiculous, but help me please Poseidon

Just help me out, nobody else will

Only one request you need to fulfill

Let me live, don’t swallow me whole

At least don’t eat away at my soul

I keep fighting through these waves

Slowly passing all these graves

Of the ones that fought before me

Wait, impossible, I finally see

A figure above the water,

A hand reaching out to the author

He wants to take it, more than anything

But he stops, and lets himself sink

To the bottom of the mighty sea

In a moment he’ll finally be free



The water fills his lungs, 
It’s time to say goodbye 

At least like this you can’t see him cry

Instead a sigh is all you’ll ever see

As he drowns, leaving like a nobody

Not a single soul will miss him

And not a single soul he’ll miss

That’s a lie- he only left the abyss

He leaves with regret, hating this choice

He’ll never hear another voice

Never hear anything anymore

Now he reaches the ocean floor

He’ll lay there forever

He’s still here,
This wasn’t clever whatsoever

Please just shut down for good,
Come on, you really should

Rid me of the pain, the lack of colour

Rid me of all of it, brother



For now I just lay here, in this blue abyss.

Hearing nothing, the only sound I dismiss

It’s that of my heartbeat, I despise it

But somehow I’m glad too, 
I have to admit.

— The End —