As he walked through the door,
He saw a slight scratching sound
Through the corner of his eye.
It turned to him,
And smiled.
It said,
"As the thunder grew louder,
It filled his eyes
With the bright sound of thunder.
And the thunder froze
and said,
'The sound scratched and scratched at his temples
And at the corners of his hair.
It silenced to sow a grain of dust'
The taps of the sound mastered his eyes.
It tranced his reality,
And it showed him another.
Though the sound thought stopped,
It wasn't."
So he :lived:.
May 11, 2011
May 11, 2011 at 9:15 PM UTC
Twice, they have done this to us.
They turned the world inside-out,
Exposing us to the blood-filled heat of magma
And the sun of the core.
We try to dig in, to bring ourselves out,
But the sky has inverted it's colors:
Black splotches on a dark red canvas.
So we endure the blood-filled heat of magma
Only to take the elevator up
To the core of the core.
A white, emotionless room.
Blinding lights in the color of black.
A new voice.
"The Has Been has chosen you;
You shall now be left."
We mean nothing more in the room of white
So we go back to the edge of the inside.
They have turned the world inside-out once again.
We are locked inside.
Mar 23, 2011
Mar 23, 2011 at 6:47 PM UTC
C:\USERS\ISAAC > open C:\Impulse\Expulse.raw
The dust settles
On the fans and the plans.
Looking like a double "2",
You try to see like one.
See or look.
Or just a look-see.
Laughing at nothing is a common thing for you.
The strangest has come,
The strangest has left.
The strangeness is correct.
Every spring,
Every water,
Every drop has a secret.
They sing to him in the form of river.
He jumps to the bank
To get his money's worth.
It's an organized procedure to him.
He sinks his head in the ground,
In the rocks and in the sound.
A random pattern is heard.
Two, Three, Ten, Five, Twenty.
One Hundred, Thirty-One, Two.
A, G, I, S.
North, East, South, West.
His, My, Her, Them.
Great, Rough, Green, Tan.
Giant mispronounciations and hidden truths.
One more thing,
Don't get lost...
"Sadness for a screen,
Sadness for a screen."
He sells his money for a screen,
To get his money's worth.
Lost files and hidden documents
Not worth the oxide their printed on.
Old memories of times still here
Hidden in words of the past.
One more thing,
It's all on impulse.
Next day he found a .raw.
He walked towards it.
It said,
"Why do you live with frantic?"
He said,
"I live to take the time."
It said,
"Why do you do the things you do?"
He said,
"To me, it's not impulse, it's expulse."
It said,
"Why do you need to get rid of?"
He said,
"The questions people seek."
It said,
"Take me to the sky.{?}"
He said,
"Gladly."
To the sky he went.
And the time he spent
He used to solve the problem.
He saw a new opportunity
To make a new sanitation.
It consisted of three notes.
Two for show and one to go.
The go note did the work
Of tasting the ground for dirt
To get it's money's worth.
It cleaned like Ben one.
And when sanitation was complete,
He went to .raw.
He said,
"The last words are gone."
It said,
"So that means we've won."
He said,
"What should we do?"
It said,
"Wait for the next."
Mar 23, 2011
Mar 23, 2011 at 12:37 AM UTC
A serious time.
A serious light.
Chants from behind,
And steam powered drums.
Four minutes to write.
Like ordered waterfalls
Or tubes of feeling
Sitting on the shelf.
One for good,
Another for perplexed,
One more for spiritual,
But his happiness is almost out.
He walks to the store
To buy happiness.
He looks through the door,
And the opaque takes over.
It fills his mind,
But not his soul.
But he takes no notice.
He goes to his aisle
For the usual feelings.
Confused, blank, sorrow, and hope.
But happiness is out of stock.
So he takes a plane to his shop.
He drills holes and points,
And lines, and nothings.
And connects his corners.
Not in a self-intersecting way.
He performs his potion
And creates a miracle.
Once done, He has his happiness
Bottled up all nicely on his shelf.
He takes the vile and pops the top,
He drinks the soul and ragged slop.
The happiness tastes homemade,
But he knows this is better than trade.
He takes his excess plane
And the holes, lines, nothings, and points,
And stores them away,
Just in case of a rainy day.
When he can't go to the store to buy his happiness.
But it's too late for him,
He added too many points
And the plane wouldn't suffice.
So what he drank
was his own sacrifice.
Mar 20, 2011
Mar 20, 2011 at 11:52 AM UTC
Grand design takes over
For the better of the worse.
Just for the sign,
Fust for the fun.
Another one takes over.
Another one fun.
Heavens come from nothing
And nothing is impossible.
(That doesn't mean everything is possible.)
Small coincidences make big differences
Between belief and not.
So the life goes on.
Another ballad for the ages.
Great frost on small grass.
Just for the observant to see.
Kinks in the universe,
Jerks in the design,
Crackle and Pop to the justice.
Justice that will soon come.
Gone to send a message,
But still coming soon.
Today is the beginning of life.
But nobody realizes it.
We were made with our memories.
We were made with out memories.
Timing strays off melody.
Lest the lust take over.
Humming to the same beat,
The writ is lamenting.
For his craziness is just inspiration in disguise.
Just like a dot on the edge of the eye.
He walks in a prescribed pattern,
Just to cure nothing.
And nothing is impossible.
He looks out of his clock,
To see the rest of his town,
And stands.
Flashes of light take over.
Loud noises of nothing fill his mind.
And nothing is impossible.
Walls shake as he watches in his clock.
The sky becomes red and brick turns to nothing.
And nothing is impossible.
He walks calmly to the next floor down,
Just like he was prescribed to do.
On the next floor down, he looks out of his clock.
He sees the load of burlap.
The floor turns to nothing.
And nothing is impossible.
A Haiku in time
Is just like it meant to be,
The coldest and dark.
Just like the Writ did.
He walks another floor down,
And looks out his clock.
Seven circles found.
Seven circles are the ground,
Which turned to nothing.
And nothing is impossible.
The Writ walks another floor down
To the floor floor.
He walks out his clock,
Takes his percautions,
And turns around.
The war has ended,
He sees nothing.
Mar 13, 2011
Mar 13, 2011 at 11:32 PM UTC
With scraped elbows
And clean knees,
The Tempest walks in.
She takes a silver veil out.
(To trance but not entrance.)
And with multiple meanings,
She spins a song
Of hardships, once lost.
She takes her veil.
And spills it on the sea.
It dances to her song
And makes a mirage of ice.
She takes the chance to rest
And rethink her life.
Soon, she's back up
With her silver veil
And she leaves,
Only to be forgotten.
Mar 13, 2011
Mar 13, 2011 at 10:44 PM UTC
I took the train
To the burning skies,
To the sinking clouds,
To the bridge of redemption.
I waited in line,
Beside the others,
For my decision,
For my punishment.
I came to him
And he said,
"You shall be one;
You will have won"
I went to my prize
With others like me.
The world was whiter;
The world was brighter.
I saw to my life
And it was filled with things.
Things people pay for;
Things people **** for.
I saw the fog
That kept Life from Love.
It blurred my sight;
It blurred my joy.
I saw the reason,
After three score and seven days.
The reason was not prize;
The reason was punishment.
I chose the option
To choose my way back
To the life before
For the life ahead.
And after the second second,
I saw the difference.
It was a saga of life;
It was a saga of dream.
Mar 13, 2011
Mar 13, 2011 at 8:43 PM UTC
Minimalist expressions of up and down
Point the way to your demise.
Short, broken sentences fill your mind.
Hats, Mats, and Fires die.
You can't tell the difference
Between where, for, art, and thou.
Random capitals and paper plates,
Fans, plans, and tried sands.
You take your sight to full size.
Life takes over.
It flows to the sun
And dries in space.
It is a living, breathing thing.
(Although it has no mind.)
Life controls destiny, but not choice.
As if,by not choice, it is destiny.
Life swings to the beat of the planets.
It swivels like a hazard
And lifts like a noose.
Life is a being,
Just like you and me.
Although it has no friends or enemies,
No Students or lovers,
No Sisters or brothers,
Life wants to be like the rest of us.
But life can't.
It flows throught the galaxies looking for a purpose.
To find a reason why it's still here.
Life wants to know.
Just like us.
Life wants to know why it's being corrupted,
Or damaged, or abused.
Life wants to know why It's rights are being taken.
Just like us.
Life wants to know why it can't sleep at night,
Why it can't think clearly,
Why it can't find enlightenment.
Just like us.
But life doesn't know.
So life keeps going on it's unknown path to somewhere.
And life will keep doing so till the day it dies.
Just like us.
It's good to know that we have so much in common with something so grand.
Mar 10, 2011
Mar 10, 2011 at 9:04 PM UTC
Today, was.
Or rather, "is".
But during Tomorrow, it will be "was".
Unless Tomorrow is Yesterday, then it would be "will be".
But if Tomorrow was Yesterday, then we would be living in two days:
One for Today,
And one for Today/Yesterday.
But if that were true, then life would be paradox;
And we would be fated to think about this again. (In two day's time)
Mar 10, 2011
Mar 10, 2011 at 8:58 PM UTC
Silver roses breaking hearts.
Beds with silver linings
And piles of piles.
Waiting all day in place
For a person.
Take a number,
stand in line.
You're not the first person here.
He takes up his instrument,
And plays one song.
The only song he knows.
The song of life.
Playing E sharps and B flats,
He composes as he plays.
But he's not improvising.
(He play's what's meant to be)
His song sounds different to all
Because their lifes goes to the music.
If he plays a bad chord,
You get backstabbed.
It he adds a sixth,
You lose a love.
If he plays a major,
You have a laugh.
If he plays a m7,
You fufill a dream.
But sometimes bad chords sound best.
And sometimes good chords make disharmony.
But then again,
Why do you care?
You don't decide your life,
He does.
Everyone is under his control.
Including him.
His song is powerful.
Even if he isn't.
His music is what sets him apart.
But he's just forcing you to hear his song.
You can't stop listening.
Even if you try.
He adds twists
And turns
And buckles
And cliffs
And jumps
And unrealistic explosions.
But, he doesn't know why he's even there.
He thinks,
"Why can't someone else play this?"
He's confused,
Is it true or is it not?
Or are his thoughts controlled by want?
He doesn't know,
So he continues on.
His song dies down,
Ending anti-climactically.
But as his story ends,
It starts again.
It turned out,
Time was cyclic.
Mar 7, 2011
Mar 7, 2011 at 5:36 PM UTC