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There is beneath us the progenitor and we call it “Mother”. Above us is the progenitor and we call it “Net” for it takes us and tosses us into the known and the unknown.

Our home star is not as bright as yours. We prefer your temperate lands when we visit, where the vegetation is lush and green. Those of us who remain inhabit your deserts and open spaces.

We are your brothers and sisters. Our development has been to grow in awareness and the development of our power. You have the potential to develop as we have, but your instincts are of a social group who need dominant members. You develop your material reality and your physical world. Your anchor is fixed and you grip the familiar and reject the unknown. There is a comfortable point where you feel the fullness, that is the anchor. In order to maintain this as a static point you develop belief systems to support it. This is your weakness, you are innocent children.

We grew and developed along another pathway, our anchor is not  rigid. We use Net for our anchor and so are able to change our perceptual reality. We move in ways that you do not understand and in any direction. We draw the fibers of Net around us and jump and fly. You see us only from your anchor point so that you see us change shape, appear and disappear.

Our voices and languages are barely accessible to you. You hear deep sounds and high pitched chirruping and whistling. Very few among you have remnants of language incorporating any of these. Those remaining are as clicks and whistles. We prefer direct communication.

We are masters of illusion. Our survival has depended on it and it is our instinct.
Our power developed so that when we pull around us the fibers of Net we create a shield and throw an illusion before those who depend on vision. It is one of our protections and also our hunting technique. We are hidden from your material probes and instruments of increased sight in this way.

Although we have been close neighbours for aeons, you have hardly seen us, except for the Few. Your interpretations have created problems for you. Your reliance on the anchor is so great that some among you do go to great lengths to maintain it. There are those among you who will silence the Few rather than lose the fixed anchor.

You are infants only, a seeding coming to fruition, and you play with dangerous toys. Your anchor is geocentric. You are in danger as is any youngster who plays with fire. If we showed you ourselves openly your rulers would not be gentle in their curiosity. We have technology and use material tools but we have had less to restrict us. We held back your development as much as we were able to enable you to develop power of the mind and independent thought.

Your grasp of Net is strong but you are rigid and anchored. You have learned to stand up and hold on. Now is the time to let go and walk, let go and run, let go and fly.

Around what you name “body” and believe to be “All” is more that you do not perceive with your restricted vision sense. You are aware of this. If you will learn acceptance and filter less from your senses, you will find the beauty of the universe of energy around you and available. A small perceptual shift would show you how you appear to those of us outside your narrow sphere.

Your body has filaments, which when translated to sight, appear as small moving threads which shine with rainbows. They move and ripple inside an energy body of light. This is your true body. It has abilities and senses that are dormant as you do not access them. They are accessible but as your anchor renders you blind to this you do not use them without intense effort or instinctively in extremity. The filaments are drawn together and pass through the anchor. Depending upon your ability to select filaments of the Net, your habitual plane and reality is selected and determined.
Those among you with abilities in your energy senses you ostracise and even ******. You succumb to misinformation to treat them as fools or freaks. This may be instinctive but it is a control mechanism to perpetuate the anchor and maintain the hive of your artificial society. So due to this, you have even less sense of true reality as it could be to you, by breeding out and suppressing your gifts. We have attempted to rectify this with limited effect in successive seedings.

You may notice that our words to you have reference to sight. Your terminology is geared to vision. You rely on visual information  so much that you have neglected physical senses of taste and smell, hearing, touch and proximity. Compared with our perceptions you are as blind as a mole is compared to to your visual abilities.

Your construction of reality is so anchored that your dangerous inclination to gather around you artifacts gives to you a sense of permanence. You are anchoring yourselves in time, yet to you it is dead because your senses are dead. There is an opportunity for your predators to use this to enforce your perception of, and control you within, your anchor's limitations. In this way, producing written or pictorial and symbolic records in permanent form is beneficial only so far as understanding continues to exist of the conditions under which these records were left. By changing current understanding and language to suit their purposes, your enforcers are able to manipulate your branch of humanity on a large scale.

You seal yourselves into the rejuvenation plane of the Mother progenitor where you feed and breed. It is so pleasurable to you to stay within this cocoon of reality that you fail to open your cast and therefore fail to fly into the spaces of Net outside where your true inheritance lies. The end result of this is greed and unrest. Your greed is paramount to you as you seek ever more pleasurable gratification. You enslave one another, buy and sell time and forget what you are. You are allowing the destruction of your home world. Without the home world you will have no place of rejuvenation, and worse neither will the myriads of others who share this progenitor.

There is a song from each mother progenitor within Net. It is a combined song and made up of the host progenitor together with silent voices of each and every life form. Together from each home world, the inhabitants send out a pulse. This is not a song from one species of a world but rather it is a song from all species, in fact every particle of every organism that lives.

To our developed senses the song of a world is brighter than the star it orbits. They are filaments of Net. The varied forms of life all send out their unique song. Many of us interact, harmonise, visit, commune and combine. You feel isolation only because you fail to harmonise and join your own song.

In your past and present we have felt the song of your world. Those of us belonging are part of that song. It is the song of being from the many. It does not end at the perimeters which you imagine. You have a problem in that, for the majority, you do not join your voices to the song. Mainly it is in dreaming, in childhood and in old age that we hear you.

We attempted to observe and commune and found many of you receptive to us. We have taught to you methods of development and given you gifts and tools. You have kept and preserved some of this knowledge only for a select few. Fears and distrust among others has caused destruction of a great proportion of the gifts that we have given to you. We found many lines of breeding where potential for development was possible. Your greed and your predator class destroyed many of them due to the competitive desire to have power over others.

In past seedings upon your progenitor and in the oldest times of your present incarnation, we have been known well and respected. Acknowledged for our seniority and loved as cousins. You did call us gods to distinguish our abilities. Then what did you do? Your control mechanisms changed the meanings of your language, whole languages were lost in wars over territory. You developed power structures and religions. Powerful rulers accumulated and isolated your shared knowledge.

You reduced your development by selective education in the Way. Territorial disputes and greed over resources divided you. You ceased to listen to the Mother. Instead of harmonious living which you had managed in agreement with each other already, you were divided by hormonal impulses, insecurity, violence and greed. The natural openness of the female within it's central domain became enclosed, imprisoned and the natural desire of the male to outwardly discover and interact was turned inwards until it became a sedentary desire for dominance within the female domain. You lost the harmonics of the song. Your religions underestimate the power of borrowed tools. Your ruling classes made deals that they didn't understand, with predators they didn't recognise, in order to save themselves.

We stood on ground over ground and were called Immortals. We gave you wisdom and were called Kings. We moved and played among you and were called Jinn. We moved among the small folk and were called Faerie. We appeared in light and were called Angels. We wandered in places where you too did once wander and were called Ghosts and Demons. Those who spoke to us and attempted to impart to your hive our knowledge, you raised as prophets or slandered and ridiculed. You stole their words to make them your own words of power, changing them to your own ends or you murdered the messengers because you feared the changes that increased understanding brings.

You incorporated the experiences of your murdered victims into a celebration of your own power structures, twisted and out of synchronisation with the song. There are some among you who are in communion with the Great Spirit of life. We seek to heal your song, your complete home world song for the benefit of the myriad sentient beings who rejuvenate here, including yourselves. We seek to set you free to wander the threads of Net. It is within your reach but not in the ways that you  are taught.

Your world is about to change and you must change with it as you are a small part of it. Holding the threads into your own anchor point will break them. You have reached inertia, entropy. The movement has to come, it is inevitable. Imagine one of your large machines of cogs and wheels and bars. Your insistence upon a rigid anchor is like a bar within the machine that doesn't move. A point of inertia in a moving system will be removed. This has happened over and over among your kind and our kind in many places and worlds. You do not remember when worlds underwent cataclysm, forgetful of trauma you have followed a similar path.

We travel along pathways of energy, both upon worlds and in the Net. Moving bodies follow these paths. We follow comets and small bodies able to move freely within Net. Net permeates your mother progenitor.

Survivors mapped the movements of Net after the slate was wiped clean and you were reseeded. There is a secret that your rulers are aware of and you are not. The secret is that there are no rulers within Net. You all have the freedom and capability to access true harmony of the song. You allow a faction, to call themselves an elite class. You fear this as a hidden power, a predator. It's aim is to amass Time: a power based on material wealth. They take this power easily as they have taken and twisted truth and history. The gifts are shared among you equally and these few know this. Resources are plentiful and yet you succumb to their restrictions. A predator cannot survive without it's prey. We are not your predators although we move among you. Your predator is within and feeds upon your fear.

You are not in the tribes now, you have no shaman, no guide to take you in and out of the gate and this role cannot be allocated to parasitic Blind Time Hoarders. These whip up your passions and lead you into war and destruction to further their material wealth. It leads you away from the song, as these think to enhance their own survival which it may do but never can as they understand it. They seek to steal your dreams and make them their own, they are helpless without you. They care nothing for the song because they are aware of successive seedings.

Net is a dream reality, changing, immeasurable, boundless, filled with infinite possibilities and you are creators. Blind time hoarders drive you by combining the minds and dreams and belief systems of many to focus onto what they themselves desire, in order to bring it to fruition. They employ dream stealers to prevent your development. They believe that their own song can exist independently and they guide you only to anchor yourselves into your own prison.

All is a dream, all is ephemeral, changing, dynamic. There is no death after death, no damnation on any particular plane. Reality is how you construct your song. Your rulers create inertia for you the many and profit for themselves using you as the tools of your own entrapment. There is no death and no damnation, they are constructs of your reality made by material anchor points and you are controlled by fear of the inevitable. It is a statecraft to use belief systems to control perceptions of reality in order to fix the anchor point to a rigid point of convenience. In this way you are farmed, you are a crop in each seeding. Who seeds you? You seed yourselves. Sentient beings are all naturally regenerated by the mechanisms of Net when conditions exist that are compatible, world after world, in each growth cycle of every celestial body. In the regeneration, holding to your rigid anchor point, you seed into your prison after each cataclysm, each breaking of the inertia.

If you would be open to the mechanisms of the place you inhabit with it's creative forces, it's sentience and it's dynamics you will learn to fly the progenitor Net's pathways and return home for rejuvenation to your progenitor Mother of the tribes.
I wrote this a few years ago. It's a bit long
the little pink paper clamp


you see once upon a time there was a little pink paper clip

which had three anchors on it, one of them is blue, and

2 are black.   the anchors mean it keeps the paper from blowing

away, you see it opens really widely and it keeps all of your

personal papers from blowing away, but what i am doing

is saying, what will happen in the anchors wanted to move away

from the paper clip, like if one moved, it will lose 1 third of the power

and if it lost 2 anchors, they would lose 2 third of the power.

if it lost all three of the anchors, the power of the  paperclip will

lose all it’s power and the only way to get the anchors back is

go the ship dock and take some of the anchors there, sure it

might mean the ships haven’t got anchors but this paperclip needs

it anchors because it needs the power of which it brings.

at present the little pink paperclip without the anchors is sitting

at the bottom of the stationery desk hoping that one day the anchors

will come back so he can keep paper in a folder.

this was going to be a hard job, as the people thought the anchors

were way to heavy to carry home, despite the anchors being small

on the clip, so one man went out on a boat who was doing whale watching

and when they threw out the anchor, which incidentally was blue, and he had

to stay by the anchor, so when the tour was over, he took the anchor away

and the blue one goes in the middle of the paperclip, and then he walked around the

other ships to find 2 black anchors to give the paperclip a lot of power to keep the paper

down, but there was only one black anchor on every boat, so he rang up the company

to find a black anchor to make up the 3, but he took one black anchor to bring back to

the paperclip and it got two thirds of the power, but they were having a hard time

trying to find the other black anchor, you see they found a pink anchor, the same colour as

the paperclip, and they found a pink anchor but it was far to light, they found a green anchor

but it was like green cordial, so he went out again and he got a orange anchor, but no it wasn’t the one

and he bought a purple anchor, the same colour as black, but no way, this wasn’t working, none of these

anchors fitted on the paperclip, so they looked hard and wide, hoping they will find a black anchor

you see they needed to keep the paper from blowing away from everywhere around the office, and just

as we gave up for day, we found the second black anchor and we put it on the paperclip and it worked

the paper was tightly on the folder, and that is how they gave anchor power to the paperclip, but the only

problem is, the ships will miss their anchor, so we must go out to buy some for them, and we did, and

our paperclip hooked the paper together and every boat was anchored down, and everyone is happy.
Keith J Collard Jun 2013
The Quest for the Damsel Fish  by Keith Collard

Author's  Atmosphere

On the bow of the boat, with the cold cloud of the dismal day brushing your back conjuring goose bumped flesh you hold an anchor.  For the first time, you can pick this silver anchor up with only one hand and hold it over your head. It resembles the Morning Star, a brutal medieval weapon that bludgeons and impales its victims.  Drop it into the dark world beyond the security of your boat--watch the anchor descend.
        Watch this silver anchor--this Morning Star--descend away from the boat and you, it becomes swarmed over with darkness.  It forms a ******-metallic grin at first as it sinks, then the sinking silver anchor takes its last shape at its last visible glimpse.  It is so small now as if it could be hung from a necklace.  It is a silver sword.  
Peering over the side of the boat, the depths collectively look like the mouth of a Cannibalistic Crab, throwing the shadows of its mandibles over everything that sinks down into it--black mandibles that have joints with the same angle of a Reaper's Scythe.  

I am scared looking at this sinking phantasm.  I see something from my youth down there in this dark cold Atlantic.  I see the silver Morning Star again, now in golden armor.  I remember a magnificent kingdom, in a saltwater fish tank I had once and never had again.  A tropical paradise that I see again as I stare down into the depths.  This fish tank was so beautiful with the most beautiful inhabitants who I miss.  Before I could lift the silver anchor--the Morning Star--over my head with only one hand, turning gold in that morning sun-- I was a boy who sat indian style, cross legged--peering into this brilliant spectacle of light I thought awesome.  I thought all the darkness of home and the world was kept at bay by this kingdom of light...

Chapter  1 Begins the Story

The Grey Skies of Mass is the Name of This Chapter.

                                                      ­­                        
    
 Air, in bubbles--it was a world beauty of darkness revealed in slashes of light from dashing fluorescent bulbs overhead this fish tank.
Silver swords of fluorescent energy daring to the bottom, every slash revealing every color of the zodiac--from the Gold of Scorpio to the purple of Libra combining into the jade of the Gemini. 
In the center, like a dark Stonehenge were rocks. The exterior rocks had tropical colors like that of cotton candy, but the interior shadows of the rocks that was the Stonehenge, did not possess one photon of light. The silver messengers of the florescent energy from above would tire and die at their base.  The shadows of the Stonehenge rocks would stand over them as they died.

 
          When the boy named Sake climbed the rickety wood stairs of the house, he did so in fear of making noise, as if to not wake each step.
   Until he could see the glowing aura of his fish tank then he would start down that eerie hall, With pictures of ghosts and ghosts of pictures staring down at him as he walked down that rickety hallway of this towering old colonial home.  He hurried to the glowing tank to escape the black and white gazing picture frames.
                    The faint gurgling, bubbling of the saltwater tank became stronger in his ear, and that sound guided him from the last haunt of the hallway-- the empty room that was perpendicular to  his room.   He only looked to his bright tank as soon as he entered the hallway from the creaky wooden steps.  Then he proceeded to sit in front of this great tropical fish tank in Indian style with his legs folded over one another as children so often would sit.
  The sun was setting.  The reflections from the tank were beginning to send ripples down the dark walls. Increasing  wave after wave reflecting down his dark walls.  He thought they to be seagulls flapping into the darkness until they were overcome as he was listening to the bubbling water of his tank.
                " Hello my fish, hello Angel, hello Tang, hello  Hoomah, hello Clown and hello Damsel … and hello to you Crab...even though I do not like you," he said in half jest not looking at the crab in the entrance of the rocks.  The rocks were the color of cotton candy, but the interior shadows did not possess a photon of luminescence.  All other shadows not caused by the rocks--but by bright swaying ornament--were like the glaze on a candy apple--dark but delicious.  Besides the crab's layer in the rock jumble at the center of the tank which was a Stonehenge within a Stonehenge--the tank was a world of bright inviting light.
                The crab was in its routine,  motionless in the entrance to his foyer, with his scythe-like claws in the air, in expectation of catching one of the bright fish someday.  For that reason the boy tried to remove the crab in the past, but even though the boy was fast with his hand, the optical illusion of the tank would always send his hand where the crab no longer was.  He did not know how to use two hands to rid the crab in the future by trapping and destroying the Cannibal Crab ;  his father, on a weekend visit, gave the Crab to the boy to put into the bright world of the saltwater tank, which Sake quickly regretted.  His father promised him that the Crab would not be able to catch any of the fish he said " ...***** only eat anything that has fallen to the bottom or each other..."

         A scream from the living room downstairs ran up the rickety wood and down the long hall and startled the boy.  His mother sent her shrieks out to grab the boy, allowing her to not have to waste any time nor calorie on her son; for she would tire from the stairs, but her screams would not, allowing her to stay curled up on the couch.  If she was not screaming for Sake, she was talking as loud as screams on the phone with her girlfriends.  The decibels from her laugh was torture for all in the silent house.   A haughty laugh in a gossipy conversation, that overpowered the sound of the bright tropical fish tank in Sake's room that was above and far opposite her in the living room.
               " Sake you have to get a paper-route to pay for the tank, the electricity bill is outrageous," she said while not taking her eyes off the TV and her legs curled up beside her.  He would glad fully get a paper-route even if it was for a made up reason.  He turned to go, and looked back at his mother, and a shudder ran through him with a new thought:  someday her appearance will match her voice.  

              Upon reaching his tank,  Hoomah was trying to get his attention as always.  Taking up pebbles in his big pouty pursed lips and spitting them out of his lips like a weak musket.  The Hoomah was a very silly fish, it looked like one of Sake’s aunts, with too much make up on, slightly overweight, and hovering on two little fins that looked incapable of keeping it afloat, but they did.  The fins reminded him of the legs of his aunt--skinny under not so skinny.’

               The Tang was doing his usual aquanautics , darting and sailing was his trick.  He was fast, the fastest with his bright yellow triangular sail cutting the water.  Next was the aggressive Clown fish, the boy thought she was always aggresive because she didn't have an anemone to sleep on.  The Clown was strong and sleek with an orange jaw and body that was built like a tigress.
  Sake thought something tragic about the body if the  orange Clown and the three silver traces that clawed her body as decoration -they reminded him of the incandescent orange glow of a street lamp being viewed through the rainy back windshield of a car.   The Clown fish was a distraction that craved attention.
The Clown would chase around some of the other fish and jump out of the water to catch the boy's eye. 
                 Next is the Queen Angel fish, she is the queen of the tank, she sits in back all alone, waving like a marvelous banner, iridescent purple and golden jade.  Her forehead slopes back in a French braid style that streams over her back like a kings standard waving before battle, but her standard is of a house of beauty, and that of royal purple.

                    Lastly is the Damsel Fish, the smallest and most vulnerable in the tank.  She has royal purple also, rivaling the queen. Her eyes are lashed but not lidded like the Hoomah.  Her eyes are elliptical, and perhaps the most human, or in the boy’s opinion, she is the most lady like, the Hoomah and the Queen Angel come to her defence if she is chased around by the Clown.  Her eyes penetrate the boys, to the point of him looking away.  

                      Before the tank, in its place in the corner was a painting, an oil painting of another type of Clown donning a hat with orange partial make-up on his face (only around eyes nose and mouth there was ghost white paint) and it  had two tears coming down from its right eye.  The Clown painting was given to him by his mother, it seems he could not be rid of them, but Sake at first was taken in by the brightness of the Clown, and the smooth salacious wet look of the painting. it looked dripping, or submerged, like another alternate reality.  The wet surreal glaze of the painting seemed a portal, especially the orange glow of the Clown's skin without make-up.  .  If he tried to remember of times  before the Clown painting that preceded the Clown fish, he thought of the orange saffron twilight of sunset, and watching it from the high window from his room in the towering house.  How that light changed everything that it touched, from the tree tops and the clouds, to even the dark hallway leading up to his room.  The painting and the Clown fish did not feel the same as those distant memories of sunset, especially the summer sunset when his mother would put him to bed long before the sun had set.  
Sake did not voice opposition to the Clown.
Then he was once again trapped by the Clown.  
            The boy was extremely afraid of this painting that replaced the sunsets , being confined alone with it by all those early bedtimes.
Sake once asked his mother if he could take it down, whereas she said " No."  That clown would follow him into his dreams, always he would be down the hill from the tall house on the hill, trying to walk back to the house, but to walk away or run in a dream was like walking underwater or in black space, and he would make no distance as the ground opened up and the clown came out of the ground hugging him with the pryless grip of eight arms.  He would then wake up amid screams and a tearful hatted clown staring somberly down at him from the wall where it was hung.  Night made him fear the Clown painting more;  that ghost white make-up decorating around the eyes and mouth seeming to form another painting in entirety.  He could only look at the painting after a while when the lights were on, and the wet looking painting was mostly orange from the skin, neck, and forearms of the hat wearing clown.  But the painting is gone now, and the magnificent light display of the tank is there now.  

                Sake pulled out the fish food, all the fish bestirred in anticipation of being fed.  The only time they would all come together; and that was to mumble the bits of falling flakes: a chomp from the Clown, a pucker from the Hoomah, the fast mumble of the Tang, and the dainty chew of the Damsel.  The Queen Angelfish would stay near the bottom, and kiss a flake over and over.   She would not deign herself to go into a friendly frenzy like the other fish; she stayed calm, yet alluring like a flag dancing rhythmically in the breeze, but never repeating the same move as the wind never repeats the same breeze.  She is the only fish to change colors.  When the grey skies of Mass emit through every portal in the house at the height of its bleakness, her colors would turn more fantastic, perhaps why she is queen.

                 He put his finger in the top of the watery world; the warmth was felt all the way up his arm.  After feeding, his favorite thing to do was to trace his finger on the top of the warm water and have the Damsel follow it. She loved it, it was her only time to dance, for the Clown would descend down in somewhat fear ( or annoyance) of the boys finger, and the Damsel and he would dance.  The boy, thought that extraordinary.

                     Sake bedded down that night, to his usual watery world of his room.  The reflective waves running down the walls like seagulls of light, with the rhythmic gurgling sound and it's occasional splash of the Clown, or the Hoomah swooping into the pebbly bottom to scoop up some pebbles for spitting making the sound "ccchhhhh" --cachinging  like a distant underwater register.  The tank’s nocturne sound was therapeutic to the boy.

                      Among waking up, and being greeted by his sparkling treasure tank--that was always of the faintest light in the morning due to the grey skies of Mass coming through every portal to lessen the tropical spectrum-- the boy would render his salutations " Good morning my Hoomah.....good morning Tang, my Damsel, and your majesty Queen Angel.....and so forth.  Until the scream would come to get him, and he would walk briskly past the empty room and the looming family pictures of strangers.  His mother put him to work that day, to "pay for the fish tank" but really to buy her a new cocktail dress for her nightly forays.  The boy did not care, the tank was his sun, emitting through the bleak skies of Mass, and even if the tank was reduced to a haze by the overcast of his life, it only added a log to the fire that was the tropical world at night, in turn making him welcome the dismal day.
                  On a day, when the overcast was so thick, he felt he could not picture his rectangular orb waiting for him at night. He had trouble remembering what houses to deliver the paper.  He delivered to the same house three times.  Newspapers seemed to disappear in his hands, due to their color relation to the sky.   Leaves were falling from the trees—butterfly like—he went to catch one, he missed--a first. For Sake could walk through dense thorned brambles and avoid every barb, as a knight in combat or someone’s whose heart felt the painful sting of the barb before.  He would stand under a tree in late fall, and roll around to avoid every falling leaf, and pierce them to the ground deftly with a stick fashioned as a sword.  He could slither between snow flakes, almost like a fish nimbly avoiding small flakes.  
                  After he finished his paper-route , he went to his usual spot under an oak tree to fence with falling leaves.  As the other boys walked by and poked fun he would stall his imagination, and look to the brown landscape of the dry fall.  The crisp brown leaves of the trees were sword shapes to him.  He held the battle ax shape of the oak leaf over his eye held up by the stick it was pierced through, and spied the woodline through the sinus of the oak leaf lobe.  The brown white speckled scenery, were all trying to hide behind eachother by blending in bleakfully; he pretended the leaf was Hector’s helmet from the Illiad—donned over his eyes.
“ Whatchya doing Sake?” asked a young girl named Summer.  Sake only mumbled something nervously and stood there.  And a pretty Summer passed on after Sake once again denied himself of her pretty company.  He looked to the woodline again, a mist was now concealing the tall apical trees.  It now looked like the brown woodland was not trying to retreat behind eachother in fall concealment, but trying to emerge forth out of the greyness to say "save us."

“ Damgf” he uttered, and could not even grasp a word correctly.  His head lifted to the sky repeatedly, there was no orb, and the shadows were looming larger than ever; fractioned shadows from tree branches were forming scythes all over the ground.
             He entered the large shadow that was his front door, into the house that rose high into the sky, with the simplicity of Stonehenge.  He climbed the rickety petrified stairs and went down the hall.  Grey light had spotlighted every frame on the wall.  He looked into the empty room, nothingness, then his room, the tank seemed at its faintest, and it was nearing twilight.  He walked past the tank to look out the w
Sophia  Sep 2017
Anchor
Sophia Sep 2017
Stormy skies
Cause raging seas
And if you're floating above the water
Everything seems fine
But if you're stuck underneath
There seems to be no escape
The surface seems so close
But the closer you get,
The harder it gets to breathe
And there seems like no way out
Especially with the anchor tied to my feet
The anchor that keeps bringing me further and further to the bottom
The point of no return...
And trying to scream doesn't work
With the stones of self-hatred that fill my mouth
If they could speak,
All they would say is to give up and give in to that ****** anchor
Because I'm not worth getting to the surface

But I know I am worth it
So I spit out the stones I've kept in for what feels like forever
And I untie the anchor that has now left a permanent mark on my skin
And I decide to swim to the surface

For so long,
I thought I needed to wait for someone to help me
To help me spit out the stones
And untie the anchor for me
And help me get to the surface
But I realize
That no one but me can pull myself up

As I reach the surface,
I watch the stones
And the anchor
Sink to the bottom
Without me
Because I am stronger
Than those ****** stones and that anchor

Me and that anchor might see each other again
But I know I can't let myself
Sink with it
Because I want to see
What's above the surface
Even those stormy skies
And those raging seas
Because I know they will come and go
Just like the anchor
But, I live to see the skies
Painted blue
Lyra Brown  Dec 2012
anchor
Lyra Brown Dec 2012
Someone I once loved
Ran his finger across my chest and traced
The outline of my moles and said
"They look like an anchor! When you connect the dots, they are the shape
Of an anchor! You are an anchor. It all makes sense now.
You are going to be okay."

At the time it was like some big epiphany for him,
Like he was telling me something about myself
That I never knew when really, I always knew
It was just
Something I didn't want
To admit. It is something
I have been running away from for a long time now, thinking
I could be an anchor for someone else
Because then THEY could be my problem, my project,
My ocean
So then that way I could leave myself, fallen by the wayside
To wither away, slowly, subtly,
Secretly disappearing.

I am attracted to people who are made of glass,
People who shatter easily, who shatter willingly,
Who are reckless and brilliant, beautiful and dangerous
People who I unconsciously think
I can save.

I can only save myself.
I can only be my own anchor.

I am nowhere near strong enough
To be with someone again
I am so terribly fragile, I break my own heart
So easily. Too willingly.
All I want is to keep realizing things like this,
To admit my mistakes and learn from them, not
Repeat them.
To hold on to the people who keep me on the ground,
The people who actually love me, who don't put me on
Some pedestal where I am liable
To float away.

Because if I'm not careful and let myself
Float away again,
I
may
never
come
back.
Daniel Samuelson  Jan 2014
Anchor
Daniel Samuelson Jan 2014
You told me once I was an anchor for your soul, and I thought it poetry
That I would keep you steady and safe in the seas of everyday
And be forever held against your starboard side.

But how useful is an anchor to a vagabond?
It binds him to his place when he desires anything but to be stationary
And holds him back and burdens him as he goes about his daily life.

How useful is an anchor to a sinking ship?
Already slipping past the surface, the extra weight serving not a purpose
But to drag it to demise at a more accelerated rate.

How useful is an anchor to an aging sailor?
It only serves to remind him of ferocious storms, and perished comrades,
And countless years he spent and lost at sea.

How useful is an anchor to a roaming heart?
And of what benefit am I to you?
Anchor
©2017 Jonathan Parker-Bryant

I am tethered to an anchor.
The tide rises and he holds me fast,
Grinning as the waters rise
And soon I must drown.

Through the dark sea, a light.
A hand reaching through the waves.
To save me.
To save me.
The anchor strikes out
Whispering lies, hoping to foster doubt
To drive the hand away.
So the anchor can keep me to itself
Even drowned and dead.

How can I escape?
To be with love and hope
I must free myself or perish
The anchor desires death and cold oblivion
I yearn for life and warmth.
In your arms, free
Free from the anchor’s embrace.
Relationships change and sometimes escaping them is harder than one imagines. And the water rises. . . .
vail joven May 2014
there is an anchor attached to my heart and i am trying to get it to come off because it's making my chest feel heavy and painful yet you tell me that this anchor is actually yours and that it is the only thing making me stay with you in this unruly ocean

so i keep the anchor because it gives you comfort and not because it is the only thing keeping me steady

i don't need it to keep me here

you are enough reason to stay
Taylor Aldous Dec 2013
I drift alone on this sea of life
Searching the skies for an answer
I search the stars and endless blue
Though I rarely find the answer I'm after
I know what you're thinking
If you're tired of drifting just put down your anchor
But my boat starts sinking
It doesn't work in my favor

What is an anchor?
It's something that lies on the sea's ground
Something that will hold you down
The reason why I almost drown
But I need it.
I need to have the depression
I crave the tears
I've been living with the tragedy of me for all these years
Balance
I crave the kite
The manic episodes of my existence
My ideas are vast
I show persistence
I fly high above people and I feel my spirit soar
I grab on to the strings when I cant take anymore
But the landing is always rough
It's unpredictable and fast
Aha! I found my answer alas!
I hold on to my kite while I drag my anchor
So my boat can float comfortably on the sea
I love my kite and my anchor
They are the two most extreme parts of me
Nicole Corea Jul 2015
For years ...
My heart sat in a box of icy glass.
Shivering every night, through the wake of daylight.
Cracking slowly over the years.
Hoping ...
Longing
for the righteous touch.
Many sought to conquer but failed...
I would crack thinking
it was time for me
to beat lively again...
But they failed...
They all failed
Not one has come close to my heart.
My heart was detached from me.
I was in cage chained,
watching my heart,
deteriorate through the years.
So
The cracks of my heart began to
rebuild its icy veins.
And my heart sat in box of icy glass.
Longing through ever shutter.
Wondering what am I beating for.
Slowly the temperatures dropped
And my heart became colder.
My heart alarmed signals of  
heavy frostbites hovering over my soul.
I slowly try to crack ,
by enduring this
emptiness of my icy heart.

It Was Dangerous Severed Heart

My heart was coped up in ice and loneliness.
My heart began to fall into abyss of winter
Everlasting for eternity,
My heart in a icy box.
For eternity....
No longer beats due to
The exhaustion from shivering .
From receiving little cracks of hope...
Open and closing to the wrong warriors..
They failed .
To save my heart .
And most importantly to save me...
My heart didn't want to be loved
My heart wanted to be misused
To be mislead through every sin.
That was my love for my heart.
Loneliness sunk into my icy box.
My heart shed tears through every shiver.
The shivers through every wrongful touch.
My heart grew weaker into the abyss..
Quitting.
Slowly
A Silhouette emerged from icy dark waters.
My heart watched this beautiful masterpiece swimming,
across every strenuous wave,
Vigorously. Powerfully.
Eyes with flame of devotion.
So much devotion...
Beautiful Dark Eyes
My Heart and I will always cherish
His eyes ....
My heart deteriorated by the time
As this ghost reached my heart...
My heart began to look for its shiver
My little trickle hair began to alert.
Waking my heart from is devastation
My heart manage to hook
it's eyes on this ghost...
He wasn't a warrior ...
He was a hero.
Angel guardian ...
With eyes that flamed devotion.
Igniting my icy cracks to reopen.
Quickly shunned ..
As when he reached with an anchor
To the iciest veins part of me
Which was my heart in the box...
My heart let go of the anchor.
It didn't want to be save.
It wanted to live in naked loneliness.
You would drop your anchor waiting
For my heart to reach.
Shunned
you
over
over
and
over
again.
Yourself shiver through the nights into daylight.
Waiting for me to defrost into your saving arms.
My heart was incapable .
My heart whisper apologies every shiver you shake waiting for me.
But my heart sank deeper into the haunted memories.
Terrifying questions
"Why weren't you becoming one of my sins"
"Why aren't you a regretful touch"
I couldn't sink deeper because your anchor followed through every pressure..
Through every flaw of my icy veins.
Thawing hard through my icy veins .
You became my hero in that very instance.
My angelic savior .
My heart began to crack to weigh on your anchor.
By the time my heart began to reincarnate itself
I found myself in shaking in shivers
My cracks began to burst with ice
I began to sank....
It wasn't my time to be saved.
Was it?
Then you became alluring serpent of my heart.
The possessed thought of my mind.
Your poison began to shift my veins .
My heart began to pump warmly ,
Slowly regaining its redness through every
Memory of you...
Through every caressing moment from you.
You.
My heart felt this unknown feeling.
It was a masterpiece forming as it began to feel.
It began to feel what my angel has been fighting for.
What you have been fighting for.
Since the moment
he let go of the anchor,
To save my heart...
Most importantly me..
I became yours a little too late .
He loves me...
And I loved him.
Then I love him
And then he loved me.
My heart had to crack
For my angel.
For myself
The time has come.
For my eyes to spark again...
With the same love and devotion
As yours...
My heart is missing heaven.
Missing home.
Missing my virtue.
There are many things,
I know my heart,
Can devote to many,
Beautiful things.
It's not easy for
My heart to start to believe again...
But my heart confides in you .
Only you...
When my heart opens ,
You will be there
with your anchor
Receiving me...
Loving me...
As I waited for awhile
to learn what home feels like .
Not in the icy box ,
But to be  in another heart full with warmth.

That is the moment I been waiting for.
To love you and only you.

Because I righteously deserve all of  you
And you righteously deserve all of me...

I thank you ...
For staying in this prolong battle...

I love you
with all the cracks
and bruises of my heart.
Soon I know I will be healed .

I love you my angel .
This is one of my heartfelt poems please enjoy
Zach Mooney  May 2013
The Anchor
Zach Mooney May 2013
It was there he lay thinkin' 'bout his day
the closing days of the year last,
'twas then he'd be a man, and have to sail under his own mast
but the winds stagnant as they be he'd nay sail out his own bay
sad as the sea, his heart heavy as the anchor weigh
like n' anchor on da' sea below he shows the rust of his past
he sits alone with his eyes lost; heavier than stones of ballast
wishin' for not soft winds, but torrents of a blistering storm night and day
N' 'bitious young lad, itchin' to go
But like the Anchor he'll stay, below the ladder's lowest rung
Unlike the Anchor he be, he strives to be a Sailor Free
Silly as it be the barnacles and rust be all there be, the angel's last song sung,
No runnin' away, no cargo to hide away in stow,
No words left to say, only a lump at the end of the Anchor's tongue.

z.m.
Nicole Ashley Jun 2015
We had a giant ship where we'd go for short boat rides. We'd throw out the anchor that kept time in the middle of the ocean and see the moon up ahead. Sometimes we made love and other times we enjoyed each other's company. And sometimes both. There was laughing and crying because knowing the ride was short, it made it all the more worth it. I always had to leave, I was always the first one and it crushed me. I didn't know what it did to you though. And now you were the first to leave this time. I know what it feels like. I wish I could stray away on that boat and float through the entire ocean just to find you because I hope you come back. I want to throw away the anchor to get rid of time. I want to know what it's like to fly because there's a hole in this boat that's slowly sinking and I don't know how to swim. The crack in the boat so far is only a crack. Where you could only hear a slow drip and sometimes it flows faster than others. That's when I get scared but I only have to breathe. You said you'd come back so I'm going to find tape or maybe some putty to fix the cracks. I'll clumsily fix the boat and throw the anchor away. An infinate amount of ocean surrounds me but there's only one anchor. I'll leave it right where we were so you know where to find me. But if I'm not back by the time you find it again, wait for me there so you can see me with wings.
I don't normally write in this form but I thought I'd try something different.
Tinkerbell Smith  May 2015
Anchor
Tinkerbell Smith May 2015
Anchor


My Love is an anchor

I am a ship unsteady
Yawling and pitching in a sea of uncertainty

But I have a secret anchor
Deep within my hold
Deep within me

He is my anchor
He is my my point of blue
My secret

He locks hard
He locks true
He is forever my point of blue..
love

— The End —