Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
It's a sad, sad life.
  
Going through days without worry,
                                       without fear,  
                                            of being judged by someone in the sky you've never met.

It's heartbreaking and pathetic.

Following morals that feel right,
                                       felt in your heart,
                                           instead going by ancient word in a "holy" book.

I am stupid, I am ignorant.

I believe differently than you, and I shall be outcast,
                                                      condemened to eternal hell,
                                                         because you disagree with me.

Is this what your "God" really wants?
I usually don't go bashing religions, but today I've felt particularly upset and offended, especially since my own mother told me I was "stupid" after I told her I was an Atheist.
Shy splinters licked her spine;
an uneven backbone kiss.
Some tissue for the weeping marrow
rest beneath the aching discs.
I've captured loose aspirations
before they could fly away,
and released them into Neverland
where they forever play.
The blue circles hung over;
they cracked and lost their touch.
The green stares find reason to attack
and **** the ones they love.
A blinding light flashes in the distance. Several unrecognizable colors swirl into grey streaks before finally drifting away into what seems like nothingness. The boundaries of this world are completely undefined and the horizon melts into an unknown eternity. This is the beginning of life. The concept of time and space is left to be lost within an uncertain reality. A second series of lights stumble in drunken skips toward my direction.
It knows I’m aware of my own existence.
The lights dance randomly until they finally sink into one glimmering beam, splitting in half instantly as it somehow rushes toward me, slowly picking up a dangerous speed in the path of its awaiting target.
It found me.
Nothing but thin air and silence separates me from this. The silence becomes my only hope.
My body locks the moment I’m caught in the tight clench of fear, the light taunting and swerving along my skin, and with a light-headed confusion, I collapse and end up sprawled across an oddly warm floor.
What I think is several hours later, my consciousness returns. Objects melt into defined lines of familiarity, tints and hues blend to form definite colors, and the universe sways and sinks into place. I am brought back to the
world I have always known but will never understand.
I am nothing but a figment of my own reality.
I know this is over-written,
a rerun of too many lines drawn
between yourself and what is
considered harsh reality.
Something is out to get you.
(how can you run from something that doesn't exist?)
Don't turn back, kid.
Can't you tell what is done?
It's tied between every set of eyes ,
but only becomes deadly when drawn from lips.
It resembles a softer mock
of tiny forget-me-knots,
but how long until they can catch fire?
It's different when tasted,  
like specks of ash upon rough tongues.
Hide the breath of the innocent
and pretend it never was.
*(you didn't hear this from me)
The smell of honey,
Returns me to my childhood,
My troubles melt away.
Bullet-wrapped words
Spill from dangerous mouths,
nonchalantly slurping rumors
from fragile adolescence.
A golden-plated intention
wears a mask of gentle feathers,
but becomes warped with ignorance
and indirect self hatred.
Careless and trivial,
the public twists reality
into sweet butter braids,
melting into an oily confusion
that only small children dare to question.
It is I who asks for something more
and aimlessly wanders varying distance
for reasons unknown,
and I float on words of people
I’ve never heard of,  
and follow their fingers as they
carry and steal innocent piano keys,
as if they could truly open locked doors.
Though attempted and failed,
the insignificant longing
trails behind a broken consciousness,
wriggling between the wrinkles of time
and crevasses of awful brain matter,
allowing this to never begin,
never continue,
and never end.
Amber leaves whisper
   As they tip-toe on sidewalks
Scattered in lost groups
   They swirl in confused winds
After trees abandon them.
Cold and drifting,
nothingness and floating,
swimming through zero gravity,
the radio-active rays of the sun
glisten and brighten ocean-bound eyes.
A thought.
Small, but significant.
It emerges slowly,
drudging through the whale's mind.

"What is this..?"

The whale said, suddenly self-aware.

"I am of need.. I need something. What I'm suddenly
going to call my 'lungs' hurt.. What does it need?
I think I'll call it.. air?"

The whale becomes even more aware of its existence.

"I'm.. I..  ..."

The whale suffocates in deep space
and dies.

The End.
This was inspired by the book/movie Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
Victims fall,
              They scream.
Innocent.
          Bodies burn,
            Homes are destroyed.
Innocent.
           Mothers hide their babies,
             children run for cover.
Innocent.
           But where was I?
             I wasn't there.
Guilty?
           I didn't cry for them,
             I wasn't able to.
Guilty?
It happened again.*
It reappeared, as if from nowhere.
There used to be a time that (in some strange way) I would shrug and it would fall off my shoulders. It will not go away and you're not here to take it.
You've had it all along, so why didn't you tell me?
I need a reason to walk away and never speak of this again.
Now I can't (won't) save you. You looked me in the eyes as I had my back turned on you.
It's not that impossible to understand once you know how sorry I was (I lied). I can't do this (and neither can you) but yet I can't stop, or bring myself to face this. I smelled it on your skin and just knew this would be the last time I would have a hold on myself (reality).
But.. still, *
it happened again.
Written when I was 14.
Two lovers.
Distance.
Lost.
Found?
  Recovered.
A throb, a tick.
A beat, a prong.
Familiar *****.
Their hearts.
Longing and needing.
Simultaneously.
Realistic?
It can't be.
Forever?
It is.
The warmth of a feathered wing
Is felt upon the roughest branch..
         I've forgotten about life around me.
A sleeping northern wind
Is released for restless eyes..
         I only want to feel something more.
A troubled thought
Follows a cotton mouth..
         I've been waiting here for you.
A stem without petals,
soil without seed,
A bird without flight,
forest without trees.
Eyes that never sparkle,
snow that never falls,
Without my lover,
I am nothing at all.
I can't believe I'm allowed to be a person. It's almost as if I don't deserve  breaths of air or the attention I so desperately desire.. I want there to be beauty, and I want to notice it, and I want it to notice me. I can't explain every happening, I can only go through it and tell you how I felt at that exact moment. I want others to see as I do, and I want to see as others do. How can someone be alone living alongside billions of people? Because we're oblivious. And simply confused. I want to feel unique, and all others want the same. I want to be my own but still belong with them. I don't want to be like you, or even be close to being like you. It's a sense of avoiding prediction and becoming special.. Becoming something more than myself and accepting nothing less.
Rewind to every last second you never lived,
and to the forgotten hopes of sad cotton-mouthed stains.
I, for one, never forgave those who have done me wrong.
I guess it's a tragedy, but I never got your name.
A pretty little pink umbrella; you can't get to me now.
You just can't get to me.
Give a foot or a leg to dance, a time to waltz with nothing more than severed limbs.
The rabbit knows what I'm talking about, and he gave the gift of time to those who couldn't take the life of another.
I understand this clearly, please go away.
Leave me be.
The birds just won't stand my songs anymore.
Written when I was 14.
Remember to forget everything here.
Disregard these lines as something you've already been told before.
I don't expect this to make a difference, and it doesn't matter if it did.
You are not important.
It's not "one in a million".
You're officially "one of a million".
Does this bother you?
Every single thought you've ever had
has already been thought of before,
and every word has been previously spoken.
Of course there are the select few who choose to break away,
and very seldom do they make it.
Those who do end up making it are not special.
They're simply lucky.
Yes, this is pointless.
No, I'm not saying I'm any better than you.
In fact, most of the people who begin reading this
haven't even gotten to this very sentence.
Anyway, just remember this:
You are and I am.
(Who are you to say this makes sense?)
Now, you may forget.
Written when I was 14.
A petal of silk,
Falls to catch winter winds,
So cold, but gentle.
Blatant stabs of jitters
and caffeinated desperation
know just how and where to
push  
us.
Is it a they, am I a we?
Statements and rambling
questions
push
forward in line but
they're out of order.
A speaker of hope
and frequent lover of
bold microphone stands,
the hopeless
push
for the stage.
Bombs and baby cradles
are not important
during this time, the
money-hungry take advantage
stretch the truth and
push
the innocent.
Helpless creatures are doomed
by their own kind,
but there are the few who
dare to
push
for something worth fighting for.
Oh poor nature’s lost my attention
the crickets bang against the wall
The weeds grow in through the pavement
and I don't care at all

Nothing seems to matter
I'll give the world my final leave
I got my bag thrown over my shoulder
and I brewed my cup of tea

Then I heard some bells a’jinglin’
and a voice not far behind
A clumsy street performer
that was everything else but mine

I see the rainbow in your glasses
and hear the whistle in your teeth
I feel the laughter from the window
through the shuffle of your feet
Oh, I know you darling
They don’t mean a thing to me
‘cause I see the rainbow in your glasses
and hear the whistle in your teeth
Raindrops,
Striking tin roofs,
And breaking morning dreams,
The sound has hushed the entire town,
Silence.
Silver*
whispers sweet nothings.
Silver
sings on fading moons.
Silver
melts with metallic warmth.
Silver
lights an undiscovered cave.
Silver
rests on elegant fingers.
Silver
becomes the tap of rain on tin roofs.
Silver
is the color of the soul.
Blue rings of smoke and
Stop.
Ending further
Stop.
Mechanical drones but
Stop.
Thought process abruptly
Stop.
Nothing has
Stop.
For my
Stop.
. . .
You may now begin.
The millions of
personal malfuctions
scrape and sing with a  
hideous tune, but none
could be better to
soothe filthy thoughts.
They begin as tiny
blue rings of smoke and
are soon ****** in through
unsightly painted vents.
A waft of sickly sweet
confusion crosses the
outer borderline,
ending further along
private hallways.
An unnoticable
tinker of raspy tools
buzz with
mechanical drones, but
it becomes easier
with children's time
and deaf ears.
It satisfies every
thought process, abruptly
ending in tasteful rainbows
and inspirational copper print.  
Nothing has
to make sense here,
and only I would know better.
This was strictly
for my
own entertainment.
*End.
The aerodynamic
spiraling of
cappuccino colors
and butterfly words,
churches divide
and coffee-shops
offer something
that equally
scolds impatient tongues.  
Floodlights
liquidize in
the charcoal fog
and the girl in
the leather jacket
comes to life
beside the freeway.
Her shoes
are the ships
and her eyes
are the telescope,
but the streets become
the cement river
where the gasoline
creatures never stop.
This is where
they left her
to die,
this is where
they took
everything away.
She is nothing,
a mistake along
this highway,
but she was lucky
to be given
a name
that sounds good
on a tombstone.
Knowing this,
her pepper eyes
water and her body
collapses upon
brittle grass,
the Earth welcomes
her return.
These words...
Will never change in my mind.
    Are not afraid of being judged.
      Do not hear harshness from others.
         These words are here just to be mine.
The taste of copper and abandoned dreams..
The air is stale and dry in the room where
the lonely trumpet man plays.
A broken tune and a broken heart
wails through all hours of the night.
He suddenly stops.
His lips are drawn away from the instrument
and his fingers no longer dance.
A lingering silence seizes every
ounce of his life, depleting his soul.
The nameless, insignificant man collapses,
his faithful trumpet follows him to the floor.
With a struggled last breath, he passes on,
but his music is still ringing in my ears.
The world is quiet here,
where silent winds blow.
The days are never changing
and the clouds watch below.
Every raindrop must fall,
every flower shall die,
and without my love,
so surely will I.
Soothing words of silence
seep through lemon trees,
The world is quiet here,
and becomes make-believe.
Unimportant opinion,
      aging and still taken to heart.
Undeniable echo,
  only ringing when
    it's least wanted.
            Longing and wishing for
         a chance to sink
                  to the floor
    Until the sting of critical words
           smudge.
Existing,
     waiting for forgetfulness.
The universe sways,
Along a ripple in time,
Beyond our small world.
How long ago did it burn? Did you feel it, or did it feel you?
It became papery and weightless, yet it could not be peeled back from which it came. It's been harder to make things easier, but I guess it's only supposed to be that way.
But didn't it die? Don't pretend you weren't there.
I watched you long ago in the privacy of someone else's mind, and from then on, it was set in stone.
I should stop, but I'm not sure how. I can't, we can't. We've been wrong from the very beginning. Shut your mouth and open your eyes, so you can see what I've been searching for this entire time. I'm sorry that I'm not and will not, no matter how this turns up. Believe me when I tell you I will always be, but will never be again.
Don't forget this risk and everything potentially lost from this.
You WILL be torn apart, and your heart will once again burn.
Written when I was 14.
What are we now?
Every sentence is a forced commitment
and every word forgets its place.
Your breath is held above ground
and I gasp from underwater.
A stare, a sloppy whisper,
I am ****** from my mistakes.
"Strained" is too pretty of a word
to describe this.
I don't want to listen
to what you believe is right,
so I'm wrong and I'm
willing to live with this,
even if it means losing you
in my own self-discovery.
She is of mild beauty,
  nothing to look twice at.
*****
Her eyes reveal nothing to her inner being,
a soulless glaze of striking black.  
*****
Her smile is crooked and ugly,
teeth stained with ***** yellow.
*****
Her body resembles a rag-doll,
Thin, fragile, and completely used up.
*****
Her pale skin is sickening,
and her limbs are tiny awkward branches.
*****
Her life is meaningless.
Anxious hands guide their little black puppets against the wall.
They dance, and the fingers finally ache.
They told the tale I've always known, unimportant and forgotten as the heavy sun rises.
The knuckes had burned long ago, but they whisper sweet nothings upon an innocent cheek.
The lonely shadows play songs I will never hear; I only wish my eyes would water.
I can't control the light, my dear, and I can't say I'm sorry for this.
A solid existence has been thrown through the blades of light cutting between your fingers,
and I couldn't of felt more alive.
The light dies and nothing else matters anymore.
In a distant reality, a moth appears, and the flutter of powdered wings in the darkened room
are undetected as it feeds on filthy clothes.
Your tattered sleeve has been tugged many times before, and I'm afraid it will rip if I let go.

— The End —