To read is to breathe
To write is to drink
To listen is to eat and
To wonder is to believe
Literature is energy for the soul
this chapter so bitter
I keep re-reading
my tender heart aches
at the thought of any slight change
any and everything
within the right constraints
may cause inconceivable discomfort
blank stares and angry confusion haunt me
they live within the uninhabited parts of me
they’ve decided to take shelter within the parts i’ve closed off for good
empty rooms they fill
inching in my mind
the worms grow by feeding on my discomfort
how they wish i was dead
sometimes i make peace and side with them
being stuck, they say, is uncomfortable.
i believe it’s not necessarily true. for instance,
...i like getting stuck inside my room and read for a day or two or three or four, forever.
...i like getting that last song stuck in my head for a day or two or three or four, forever.
...i like getting stuck in traffic with my pen and paper.
...i like getting stuck in the moment...perhaps, with you.
getting stuck is an opportunity, staying stuck is unhealthy
staying stuck on a single story out of convenience regardless of its completeness is poison mistaken for remedy
the reclusive writer tells us a good writing day
and so the teenage boy gathered
all the magic he could muster
then he sprinkled it on top his head
like fairy dust
he closed his eyes
with the sparkling white
parachuting to his skull
it felt like cool rain drops
on a mid-summer day
in downtown L.A.
just like the elf said it would
the boy imagined laying his weepers
on the girl's returning glance
how he would fixate
on her twin ocean blues
casting a view back
and suddenly he felt a nostalgia
he had never felt before!
an ocean wave splashes
against his veins
skin breaks, steel stabs
and then his will breaks
but wait, this was different!
then, it hit him like a thirty foot wave
that was being at God's table
and eating ambrosia before him
the best moment of his life
the teenager's emotions
body and mind have a simultaneous ******
and it breaks
his whole body was blanketed
with a warm fuzziness
like a ten-foot fairy descended
and embraced him
he's lost deep in his girl's twin diamonds now
not a care for drowning in them
and the sparkling parachutes
and falls slowly like Christmas snow
as his will breaks
his feet get wet from the sandy shores at Corner's Bay
then, the boy greets her sweet perfume
by raising an eyebrow
the girl's hands caress her boy's pale face
and he returns the sentiment with a smile
the scorching ball above
blushes and red tentacles
shoot out and grab
at his right arm
the waves break
and he knows everything will be downhill
from that moment forward
so, he decides to stay
copyright 2020 / Luiz D. Syphre
When clusters of anxieties roam inside me i try to read the blank last page of my life.
There is not a ”the end” to a story.
It’s just that the rest was never written down.
never written down or read
Some days I want to paint,
some times I want to be painted.
Some days I want to write,
some times I want to be written.
Some days I want to read,
some times I want to be read.
Some days I want to be a gardener,
some times I want to be the flower of that garden.
Some days I want to live,
some times I want to breathe in peace.
your core will always be your core
no matter the external environment
influences or gravitational forces
that may want to distort or otherwise
reshape your fundamental self
your core will remain unblemished
your core will remain unblemished
this is a universal truth
as solid as the infinity
of the sun rising every morning