"albums" poems - Hello Poetry

"albums" poems

i have racked my mind trying to figure this whole thing out the staying, the going the threads we claim hold us here & the people who've stopped to play a tune on them i sometimes relate it to waking up in waist deep snow in our former selves the us we wish we could give one another the children we've sat on the shelves trapped, like the looks we leave behind in snow globes i sometimes imagine ships dragging the bottom to the sea of "me" for sleep & pieces of my old self to sell to the new one like history doesn't repeat itself it gets me wondering if you too want an apology from the rain or if you dream of burning family photo albums and wearing the ashes like perfume if you're anything like me how i hope god chokes on memories of me blowing out candles as a child i know i shouldn't reference my reader but don't you know, the only difference between alone & lonely is you? that if my hands could talk the only thing they'd be able to say is "dear god we've missed you" and how can you tell me it isn't love when even the rain refuses to fall in places where i've kissed you i remember the day you found my smile at a yard sale it reminds me of how you'll leave i wonder if when you go you'll tell yourself the person in the rear view mirror is closer than they appear

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May 9, 2014

May 9, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC

emergency room knuckles

i have racked my mind trying to figure this whole thing out the staying, the going the threads we claim hold us here & the people who've stopped to play a tune on them i sometimes relate it to waking up in waist deep snow in our former selves the us we wish we could give one another the children we've sat on the shelves trapped, like the looks we leave behind in snow globes i sometimes imagine ships dragging the bottom to the sea of "me" for sleep & pieces of my old self to sell to the new one like history doesn't repeat itself it gets me wondering if you too want an apology from the rain or if you dream of burning family photo albums and wearing the ashes like perfume if you're anything like me how i hope god chokes on memories of me blowing out candles as a child i know i shouldn't reference my reader but don't you know, the only difference between alone & lonely is you? that if my hands could talk the only thing they'd be able to say is "dear god we've missed you" and how can you tell me it isn't love when even the rain refuses to fall in places where i've kissed you i remember the day you found my smile at a yard sale it reminds me of how you'll leave i wonder if when you go you'll tell yourself the person in the rear view mirror is closer than they appear

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and i am eleven again feeling like tomorrow is a couple yesterday's ago smothered in cayenne pepper hot enough to take off taste buds and tonight i am eating a meal only worth burning it tastes like my parents anniversary it tastes like a zinfandel left on the counter too long it's a bad story, see there's no silverware 'cause my mom sold it to keep the lights on and somewhere in heaven somebody in a suit doing commentary on this fiasco is telling someone else in a suit that "you have to eat love with your hands" so we sit, four plates on the table for the two of us my brother's long gone dad's even further away & he's not the one who's buried i carry both their names like anchors that i cannot unmoor from while she looks at the empty table and says something about the news she says something else but she's not talking we aren't proud of this, see my dad likes to wax his car he's proud of it and my mom says she sees a lot of him in my hands says, i touch the things i find like they didn't belong to people sleeping in the ground she says i touch photo albums the same way- you know, i never used to believe that history could repeat itself not until i could fast forward seventeen years and still wake up to smoke alarms how i would go into our kitchen to find it empty and the dinner smoldering & my mother in her bedroom looking through family photos like it's a just another summer day and the sirens are just the birds i don't ask, i never say a word in this moment i am an archeologist afraid to dig up the past cause history repeats itself- you see my brother is dead and my father is gone they have been for some years now and my mother sometimes forgets and sets their place at the table like they're still here and in the confusion ends up ankle deep in pictures of how it used to be she let's dinner burn and douses it in red pepper hoping i won't know the difference

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Oct 10, 2014

Oct 10, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC

and i am eleven again feeling like tomorrow is a couple yesterday's ago smothered in cayenne pepper hot enough to take off taste buds and tonight i am eating a meal only worth burning it tastes like my parents anniversary it tastes like a zinfandel left on the counter too long it's a bad story, see there's no silverware 'cause my mom sold it to keep the lights on and somewhere in heaven somebody in a suit doing commentary on this fiasco is telling someone else in a suit that "you have to eat love with your hands" so we sit, four plates on the table for the two of us my brother's long gone dad's even further away & he's not the one who's buried i carry both their names like anchors that i cannot unmoor from while she looks at the empty table and says something about the news she says something else but she's not talking we aren't proud of this, see my dad likes to wax his car he's proud of it and my mom says she sees a lot of him in my hands says, i touch the things i find like they didn't belong to people sleeping in the ground she says i touch photo albums the same way- you know, i never used to believe that history could repeat itself not until i could fast forward seventeen years and still wake up to smoke alarms how i would go into our kitchen to find it empty and the dinner smoldering & my mother in her bedroom looking through family photos like it's a just another summer day and the sirens are just the birds i don't ask, i never say a word in this moment i am an archeologist afraid to dig up the past cause history repeats itself- you see my brother is dead and my father is gone they have been for some years now and my mother sometimes forgets and sets their place at the table like they're still here and in the confusion ends up ankle deep in pictures of how it used to be she let's dinner burn and douses it in red pepper hoping i won't know the difference

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I still remember that magnolia, We found it walking down the street. It was as beautiful as that day And it hadn't even bloomed yet. I still remember it I remember the walk through the city. Without a care, As if we owned it, In some ways, I think we did. I still remember I remember the looks we got, You could tell what everyone thought- That we were the sweetest couple They'd seen in ages. And we didn't bother to correct them, It'd be too hard And it'd break their hearts. I still remember I still remember that magnolia, It was hanging off a branch- I'd never seen a flower like it, But you hadn't either. So you grabbed it, and I kept it. I still remember it I remember how the sun was hot My shoes were all wrong for that walk. You wore a white t-shirt, And I wore a tank top. You paid and I told jokes. We asked questions, Almost as if we'd never met. I can even name the song you played On your iPod filled with albums. I still remember I remember how I tried not to cry When we said our final goodbye. We hugged more times than I can count. And we smiled so we wouldn't fall apart. I still remember I still remember that magnolia, It bloomed the very next day. It filled my room with a magical scent, It opened until it was larger than my face. I researched until I discovered That it was called magnolia. I still remember it And now it's years later, Maybe two or three- It's hard to keep track. But magnolia is my favorite flower

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Apr 12, 2014

Apr 12, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC

Remember Magnolia?

I still remember that magnolia, We found it walking down the street. It was as beautiful as that day And it hadn't even bloomed yet. I still remember it I remember the walk through the city. Without a care, As if we owned it, In some ways, I think we did. I still remember I remember the looks we got, You could tell what everyone thought- That we were the sweetest couple They'd seen in ages. And we didn't bother to correct them, It'd be too hard And it'd break their hearts. I still remember I still remember that magnolia, It was hanging off a branch- I'd never seen a flower like it, But you hadn't either. So you grabbed it, and I kept it. I still remember it I remember how the sun was hot My shoes were all wrong for that walk. You wore a white t-shirt, And I wore a tank top. You paid and I told jokes. We asked questions, Almost as if we'd never met. I can even name the song you played On your iPod filled with albums. I still remember I remember how I tried not to cry When we said our final goodbye. We hugged more times than I can count. And we smiled so we wouldn't fall apart. I still remember I still remember that magnolia, It bloomed the very next day. It filled my room with a magical scent, It opened until it was larger than my face. I researched until I discovered That it was called magnolia. I still remember it And now it's years later, Maybe two or three- It's hard to keep track. But magnolia is my favorite flower

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Into a place far away but too familiar, I push open the rusty purple gates, Inhale a lungful of the province air, Kick away blue pebbles on the dusty ground, And then Mano my lolo, my tito Beso my lola, my tita And give my cousins a nudge on the arm, A pinch on the cheeks. I squeeze between four people In a rickety wooden bench and Pass around plate after heavy plate. I fill my banana leaf With spaghetti too soft too sweet, Almost like pudding, With crispy chicken dripping with oil. I wash it off with a cool glass of gulaman, Chewy beads and gems in sugary water. Fathers talk about basketball, boxing, billiards; Mothers browse through photo albums and magazines; While we children argue about Superman or Batman. Our laughter fills the humid air And goes up, up, up to the ears of the neighbors. In celebration of the time we have together And a nice sunny day We devour our meals And go ahead and Climb trees and Get our faces sticky with sweet fruits, Lick chocolate ice popsicles, Chase each other in the weedy playground, Bike around town, Pick colorful flowers, Wrestle with each other, Play badminton on a windy day, Scare around chickens and guinea pigs, And play patintero under the dull orange street lamps. We nervously creep inside the back door, All sweaty, bearing bruises and scratches But still with wide smiles on our faces. All is futile though. An angry grandmother awaits, Scolding us for Coming home past sunset. More and more stars glitter the sky As the night gets deeper and deeper. The gentle evening breeze whistles a note As it enters through the window. The karaoke blasts grating voices Interrupted by hearty laughter. Playing cards and corn chips litter the table. We children exchange jokes and ghost stories. And then, We bid our goodbyes, Sharing hugs and kisses Stained with discontent and sadness. Our hearts about to burst In excitement for the next Reunion.

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Nov 8, 2013

Nov 8, 2013 at 3:56 AM UTC

marge-redelicia

Into a place far away but too familiar, I push open the rusty purple gates, Inhale a lungful of the province air, Kick away blue pebbles on the dusty ground, And then Mano my lolo, my tito Beso my lola, my tita And give my cousins a nudge on the arm, A pinch on the cheeks. I squeeze between four people In a rickety wooden bench and Pass around plate after heavy plate. I fill my banana leaf With spaghetti too soft too sweet, Almost like pudding, With crispy chicken dripping with oil. I wash it off with a cool glass of gulaman, Chewy beads and gems in sugary water. Fathers talk about basketball, boxing, billiards; Mothers browse through photo albums and magazines; While we children argue about Superman or Batman. Our laughter fills the humid air And goes up, up, up to the ears of the neighbors. In celebration of the time we have together And a nice sunny day We devour our meals And go ahead and Climb trees and Get our faces sticky with sweet fruits, Lick chocolate ice popsicles, Chase each other in the weedy playground, Bike around town, Pick colorful flowers, Wrestle with each other, Play badminton on a windy day, Scare around chickens and guinea pigs, And play patintero under the dull orange street lamps. We nervously creep inside the back door, All sweaty, bearing bruises and scratches But still with wide smiles on our faces. All is futile though. An angry grandmother awaits, Scolding us for Coming home past sunset. More and more stars glitter the sky As the night gets deeper and deeper. The gentle evening breeze whistles a note As it enters through the window. The karaoke blasts grating voices Interrupted by hearty laughter. Playing cards and corn chips litter the table. We children exchange jokes and ghost stories. And then, We bid our goodbyes, Sharing hugs and kisses Stained with discontent and sadness. Our hearts about to burst In excitement for the next Reunion.

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Take a look At this decade's eternal light. Youth, beauty, happiness. In theory. Is that how it was for our parents? Top tags on this website #depression #suicide #heartbreak Are grandma's photo albums fairytales Or has something changed Without shame Unmarked blame Just a change Perseverance died At the doorstep of sarcastic self-deprecation, Cool-to-be-lame facades, Glorified depression, growing vines on glowing laptop walls With a generation, fetal position, ripped jeans and eyeliner, inside Self proclaimed **** If you say it first Those twisted lips of others Won't press on such a fresh wound And here we lose the metaphor Cut yourself So everyone else Is picking at scabs No one would hurt another Who hurts themselves Unless they're an *** So the words are silenced Are you stronger? Happier? Healthier? And so we can always be safe In our self loathing Until puppy eyes and perfect pictures Leave us hungry Hurt by the people who don't mind being ***** Gaining assets, stealing rights from under Our droopy dismal noses snapshot Caption: **** up, let down, repeat. Hate me. -politicians and companies will bash your head on rock bottom Looking up in disbelief at chemical burns from Big Mac's We'll look back down to pout about our pain. The only way to save ourselves? Perseverance Positivity Hope Though I conveyed none of those emotions in this poem. **** me. I'm a hypocrite. But my point still stands. Perhaps even stronger.

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Apr 2, 2014

Apr 2, 2014 at 2:34 AM UTC

I'm Scared, Scarred, and Scrooge-like

Take a look At this decade's eternal light. Youth, beauty, happiness. In theory. Is that how it was for our parents? Top tags on this website #depression #suicide #heartbreak Are grandma's photo albums fairytales Or has something changed Without shame Unmarked blame Just a change Perseverance died At the doorstep of sarcastic self-deprecation, Cool-to-be-lame facades, Glorified depression, growing vines on glowing laptop walls With a generation, fetal position, ripped jeans and eyeliner, inside Self proclaimed **** If you say it first Those twisted lips of others Won't press on such a fresh wound And here we lose the metaphor Cut yourself So everyone else Is picking at scabs No one would hurt another Who hurts themselves Unless they're an *** So the words are silenced Are you stronger? Happier? Healthier? And so we can always be safe In our self loathing Until puppy eyes and perfect pictures Leave us hungry Hurt by the people who don't mind being ***** Gaining assets, stealing rights from under Our droopy dismal noses snapshot Caption: **** up, let down, repeat. Hate me. -politicians and companies will bash your head on rock bottom Looking up in disbelief at chemical burns from Big Mac's We'll look back down to pout about our pain. The only way to save ourselves? Perseverance Positivity Hope Though I conveyed none of those emotions in this poem. **** me. I'm a hypocrite. But my point still stands. Perhaps even stronger.

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pinecones are childhood summers spent tripping over the syllables of dense forests folded somewhere between real world Europe and my very real imagination, nestled against each other on bookshelves made of pinewood - a childhood game of hide and go seek pressed in photo albums where a version of me lived; a version of me who delighted my mother and father, a version who to me remains a stranger - smiling gap toothed, shoes in snow boots, sticky fingers pressing pine cones against her nose - the present, a fragrance; the future, a rolling pine forest. pinecones are what the years between 17 and 19 felt like in perennial wanderlust, soul spliced into shards trying to make sense of everything I felt and everything I thought; everything I needed and everything I still want. pine cones perfume the edges of a dream dipped in the streams and stories of far-off lands, pine cones are the crutches of a crippled mind still building a new home for itself in the basements of other people’s hearts. pinecones are platforms which I danced from, leaping limber, slaying fear, the win always near; pine cones are a reminder that while a man can break his shoulder trying to tear one from the tree, the true mark of bravery lies in how well you can break free. pine cones are the skeletons upon which hang the colourless drapes of my future before stepping into galactic puddles that splash colour all over every unmade plan, memories’ strands shining technicolour through translucent skin - the touch of your fingers no longer feel like sins. pine cones are young green and supple, seeds of love lust and chance encounters that blaze into fiery shades of yellows and oranges, every colour turning a tinge darker, a daily time marker; pine cones are what remain, dark and unyielding after a lifecycle of fires starting and dying within the embers of consciousness.

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Jan 13, 2016

Jan 13, 2016 at 2:56 AM UTC

pinecones are childhood summers spent tripping over the syllables of dense forests folded somewhere between real world Europe and my very real imagination, nestled against each other on bookshelves made of pinewood - a childhood game of hide and go seek pressed in photo albums where a version of me lived; a version of me who delighted my mother and father, a version who to me remains a stranger - smiling gap toothed, shoes in snow boots, sticky fingers pressing pine cones against her nose - the present, a fragrance; the future, a rolling pine forest. pinecones are what the years between 17 and 19 felt like in perennial wanderlust, soul spliced into shards trying to make sense of everything I felt and everything I thought; everything I needed and everything I still want. pine cones perfume the edges of a dream dipped in the streams and stories of far-off lands, pine cones are the crutches of a crippled mind still building a new home for itself in the basements of other people’s hearts. pinecones are platforms which I danced from, leaping limber, slaying fear, the win always near; pine cones are a reminder that while a man can break his shoulder trying to tear one from the tree, the true mark of bravery lies in how well you can break free. pine cones are the skeletons upon which hang the colourless drapes of my future before stepping into galactic puddles that splash colour all over every unmade plan, memories’ strands shining technicolour through translucent skin - the touch of your fingers no longer feel like sins. pine cones are young green and supple, seeds of love lust and chance encounters that blaze into fiery shades of yellows and oranges, every colour turning a tinge darker, a daily time marker; pine cones are what remain, dark and unyielding after a lifecycle of fires starting and dying within the embers of consciousness.

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Our walls white against white decorated with jasmine flowers that have witnessed everything. They've seen the french speaking the language of love with weapons of destruction in their hands carrying our nation's sons six feet under their footsteps stepping on honor's history forever. "Ya worood al yasmeen" with pearly white petals, and bright green stems I've watch you grow over our house year after year hanging high and low gazing at the loss below. I am now far, distant like a stranger the homeland has put smiles on our faces that glow in albums of badly taken pictures that will haunt my path across oceans. One day, the heart will ask for home and I shall listen to it as it yearns for the sweet scent of jasmines. My grandmother's house once filled with love now emptied her biggest fears coming to life pictures hanging on the wall ghosts of love so short-lived but remind me to tell her that she is not alone there are flowers like angels watching from above.

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Dec 6, 2014

Dec 6, 2014 at 6:24 AM UTC

betweenthelines

Algiers - The City of Jasmines

Our walls white against white decorated with jasmine flowers that have witnessed everything. They've seen the french speaking the language of love with weapons of destruction in their hands carrying our nation's sons six feet under their footsteps stepping on honor's history forever. "Ya worood al yasmeen" with pearly white petals, and bright green stems I've watch you grow over our house year after year hanging high and low gazing at the loss below. I am now far, distant like a stranger the homeland has put smiles on our faces that glow in albums of badly taken pictures that will haunt my path across oceans. One day, the heart will ask for home and I shall listen to it as it yearns for the sweet scent of jasmines. My grandmother's house once filled with love now emptied her biggest fears coming to life pictures hanging on the wall ghosts of love so short-lived but remind me to tell her that she is not alone there are flowers like angels watching from above.

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The comfiest human bed warmer I ever had, My fundamental tutor of the good and the bad, The original storyteller in my bedtime tantrums, The resident photographer of my birthday albums. The accidental magician who tricked me out of my worries, A sympathetic dictator who scolds but allows my fancies, My biased talent manager who always tells me I'm the best, The loudest cheerleader who puts to shame all the rest. The world's underrated chef cooking heavenly meals, Our unpaid laundry lady worrying over water bills, The overqualified nurse never leaving her patient, Our top-notch budget analyst negotiating every payment. The random gardener, she can grow anything with ease, Our talkative historian, she stops recalling only if we say please, The uncanny philosopher, we've learned a lot from her, The lost and found administrator, tracking things hidden anywhere. The most efficient multitasker I've ever known, My trustworthy adviser who knows me down to my bones, A tough fighter who keeps winning her every battle, My life's co-creator and this world's greatest mother.

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May 13, 2017

May 13, 2017 at 7:44 PM UTC

The Versatile Matriarch

The comfiest human bed warmer I ever had, My fundamental tutor of the good and the bad, The original storyteller in my bedtime tantrums, The resident photographer of my birthday albums. The accidental magician who tricked me out of my worries, A sympathetic dictator who scolds but allows my fancies, My biased talent manager who always tells me I'm the best, The loudest cheerleader who puts to shame all the rest. The world's underrated chef cooking heavenly meals, Our unpaid laundry lady worrying over water bills, The overqualified nurse never leaving her patient, Our top-notch budget analyst negotiating every payment. The random gardener, she can grow anything with ease, Our talkative historian, she stops recalling only if we say please, The uncanny philosopher, we've learned a lot from her, The lost and found administrator, tracking things hidden anywhere. The most efficient multitasker I've ever known, My trustworthy adviser who knows me down to my bones, A tough fighter who keeps winning her every battle, My life's co-creator and this world's greatest mother.

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O The Who belted out adolescent stress through edgy guitar riffs like they still had pimples long after they became famous. And me I I often forget that I'm I'm supposed to be becoming a Man or something like that. My hands are bleeding surely: my guitar pick isn't my fingers but soon I'll write these nonsensicals in blood. But nobody should scream out for that. Nobody should buy my words like rock-albums. Nobody should ask Who is he and Who am I because me I I often forget that I'm I'm supposed to be becoming a Man or something like that. While The Who O The Who belt out out adolescent stress through edgy guitar riffs like they still have pimples long after becoming famous like Who?

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Jul 23, 2015

Jul 23, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC

O The Who belted out adolescent stress through edgy guitar riffs like they still had pimples long after they became famous. And me I I often forget that I'm I'm supposed to be becoming a Man or something like that. My hands are bleeding surely: my guitar pick isn't my fingers but soon I'll write these nonsensicals in blood. But nobody should scream out for that. Nobody should buy my words like rock-albums. Nobody should ask Who is he and Who am I because me I I often forget that I'm I'm supposed to be becoming a Man or something like that. While The Who O The Who belt out out adolescent stress through edgy guitar riffs like they still have pimples long after becoming famous like Who?

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I'll make your words my playlist... and I'll play them over and over again I'll put them on repeat... so I am reminded that I have a friend It is medicine to my ears... No remix or night core modification could compare The music that motivates my heart to keep dancing... The beat that makes my heart keep throbbing... to show that I care I'll make your words my playlist... and your sentences my harmony to my melody. No billion dollar offer could make me sell your albums... Because you sang each word... to me... and for me... so heavenly... Let me make your words my Playlist... and I swear... I'll embrace and believe every word... every whisper... every breath... never to be on-air...

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Oct 2, 2018

Oct 2, 2018 at 3:37 PM UTC

ClawedBeauty101

♥♫ I'll make your words my Playlist ♫♥

I'll make your words my playlist... and I'll play them over and over again I'll put them on repeat... so I am reminded that I have a friend It is medicine to my ears... No remix or night core modification could compare The music that motivates my heart to keep dancing... The beat that makes my heart keep throbbing... to show that I care I'll make your words my playlist... and your sentences my harmony to my melody. No billion dollar offer could make me sell your albums... Because you sang each word... to me... and for me... so heavenly... Let me make your words my Playlist... and I swear... I'll embrace and believe every word... every whisper... every breath... never to be on-air...

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Can we get much higher than this? When all I can hear over the old dial up phone you use is the sound of nicotine exhales and big sighs caused by silences I am too scared to fill. Can we love any more than this? I can hear you humming the song that's spinning and it makes me love you more. You laugh at my nervousness, how I twitch when you say my name. I always ignore you because I'm scared you'd say goodbye. Can we get more tired than this? Four am, your favorite albums crooning me to sleep. Could you be more mistaken? You thought I was scared of your darkness, of the shadows beckoning to you from every corner of homes you did not own, and people you did not really know... yet. I have a permanent dent in my ear from piercings that were too heavy for my fragile skin, and everytime I run my fingertips over it, it reminds me of you. You are bent but never broken, never broken. Can we get more distant than this? It's been months since I could honestly say that I thought you loved me. So many miles, so many miles, so many miles... You're 874 kilometres away from me. You are universes away from me. And now everything tastes like goodbye.

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Oct 9, 2013

Oct 9, 2013 at 10:22 PM UTC

Can we get much higher than this? When all I can hear over the old dial up phone you use is the sound of nicotine exhales and big sighs caused by silences I am too scared to fill. Can we love any more than this? I can hear you humming the song that's spinning and it makes me love you more. You laugh at my nervousness, how I twitch when you say my name. I always ignore you because I'm scared you'd say goodbye. Can we get more tired than this? Four am, your favorite albums crooning me to sleep. Could you be more mistaken? You thought I was scared of your darkness, of the shadows beckoning to you from every corner of homes you did not own, and people you did not really know... yet. I have a permanent dent in my ear from piercings that were too heavy for my fragile skin, and everytime I run my fingertips over it, it reminds me of you. You are bent but never broken, never broken. Can we get more distant than this? It's been months since I could honestly say that I thought you loved me. So many miles, so many miles, so many miles... You're 874 kilometres away from me. You are universes away from me. And now everything tastes like goodbye.

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Some get that way by playing it safe, memorizing mantras, righteously abiding by rules, some get there by cutting seams, lost in purposelessness, partaking of ether, marijuana, alcohol, or anything that's buzzy enough, some find their sweepstakes in curls, in fantasies, on the internet, or in the aftermath, some claim the spoils, some gracefully accept determination, some divorce their wives, some happily raise their pulse to the heavy metals, some review albums and cut down the ******** some write love stories for our grandmas, our moms, our ex-girlfriends, some find it in politics, right winging, left winging, chicken winging, some in bomb threats, some find it in supremacy, others in melting pots, some cheer up over breakroom chitty-chats, some in **** *** some in sympathizing with pedophiles trapped in iron lungs, some when they have hit the bottom rung, some by rationalizing, boosting themselves above half-wrongs, to coast on the half-rights, some by breaking up, some by declaring war, only to get discouraged, yet proud of the scars, some kids dance to experimental music, some write blogs about capitalism, some find it kicking it with bitter vegans, others while murdering their parents, but everyone is a winner, everyone is right, everyone has earned the paycheck, the vacation, the **** wife, and the key to eternal life.

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Dec 16, 2010

Dec 16, 2010 at 8:03 AM UTC

Everyone is a Winner (hoo-rah-ray)

Some get that way by playing it safe, memorizing mantras, righteously abiding by rules, some get there by cutting seams, lost in purposelessness, partaking of ether, marijuana, alcohol, or anything that's buzzy enough, some find their sweepstakes in curls, in fantasies, on the internet, or in the aftermath, some claim the spoils, some gracefully accept determination, some divorce their wives, some happily raise their pulse to the heavy metals, some review albums and cut down the ******** some write love stories for our grandmas, our moms, our ex-girlfriends, some find it in politics, right winging, left winging, chicken winging, some in bomb threats, some find it in supremacy, others in melting pots, some cheer up over breakroom chitty-chats, some in **** *** some in sympathizing with pedophiles trapped in iron lungs, some when they have hit the bottom rung, some by rationalizing, boosting themselves above half-wrongs, to coast on the half-rights, some by breaking up, some by declaring war, only to get discouraged, yet proud of the scars, some kids dance to experimental music, some write blogs about capitalism, some find it kicking it with bitter vegans, others while murdering their parents, but everyone is a winner, everyone is right, everyone has earned the paycheck, the vacation, the **** wife, and the key to eternal life.

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procuring lexical polymorphism synthesizing atypical signifier playing blue album awaiting tomorrow's celebrations adding complex plugins altering element content watching office mascot wheeling hue-named albums undulating forest growth pricing those yankees finding layman's chaos enjoying another victory reviewing markup concepts ditching error messages enjoying relative obscurity

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Sep 27, 2015

Sep 27, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC

procuring lexical polymorphism synthesizing atypical signifier playing blue album awaiting tomorrow's celebrations adding complex plugins altering element content watching office mascot wheeling hue-named albums undulating forest growth pricing those yankees finding layman's chaos enjoying another victory reviewing markup concepts ditching error messages enjoying relative obscurity

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One day someone will be taking care of me When I'm sick and when I'm hurt Someday I'll come home to a person Who washed and folded all my shirts Maybe in the future he'll make dinner for me too And know how I'm feeling even if what I say isn't true I'll work all day and get home so tired and worn And maybe he will do, and feel, the same We could just lay on the ground and order a pizza Eat half of it and pass out where we lay Wake up at four in the morning, only seeing silhouettes in the night And hold each others hands as we find our bed without our sight I'd make him surprise meals, maybe way too soon And discourage myself as he's out so late that day He'd come home and I'd tell him what I'd created Although now its cold/ soggy/ not the same, he'd still kiss me and say, "Thank you, baby. I'm sorry I was late, did I make you cry?" And I'd nod and look nonchalant... or at least I'd try. When we're apart, I'll think of him all throughout my time Thinking of future gifts and laughing too hard at his past puns Maybe looking like a lovestruck idiot in public But he would know, that's just how my mind runs And seeing each other again, I'd make sure to feel his face too much He'd let me, since he would love my touch He'd watch me sleeping ugly, with drool and farts and noise He'd probably record it to blackmail me later, Threatening with laughter to show it to all his friends But little would he know that I could do one greater: Revealing the albums of candid photos and videos in my phone And I wouldn't be able to help it, he would just be so cute-prone We may argue over something silly, something stupid, and I'd refuse to see him at all Looking away when he walks by and ignoring him when he talks to me He'd be hurt, and he would tell me that, my icy heart would melt away And I'd hug him so tight and apologize for being a meanie He wouldn't say anything, what if he doesn't hug me back? ...what if he never again placed his hands on my back? What if I ruin everything? If my personality is immature and strong He'll have had enough of it and he'll gently tell me he's letting me go I know I'll cry, asking if he still wants to keep the gifts I gave And my heart will be trembling as I fear he may say no... Because each moment was a whirlwind of him I'm afraid I'll ruin my future before it begins...

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Aug 7, 2018

Aug 7, 2018 at 8:59 PM UTC

The Best Relationship I Haven't Had

One day someone will be taking care of me When I'm sick and when I'm hurt Someday I'll come home to a person Who washed and folded all my shirts Maybe in the future he'll make dinner for me too And know how I'm feeling even if what I say isn't true I'll work all day and get home so tired and worn And maybe he will do, and feel, the same We could just lay on the ground and order a pizza Eat half of it and pass out where we lay Wake up at four in the morning, only seeing silhouettes in the night And hold each others hands as we find our bed without our sight I'd make him surprise meals, maybe way too soon And discourage myself as he's out so late that day He'd come home and I'd tell him what I'd created Although now its cold/ soggy/ not the same, he'd still kiss me and say, "Thank you, baby. I'm sorry I was late, did I make you cry?" And I'd nod and look nonchalant... or at least I'd try. When we're apart, I'll think of him all throughout my time Thinking of future gifts and laughing too hard at his past puns Maybe looking like a lovestruck idiot in public But he would know, that's just how my mind runs And seeing each other again, I'd make sure to feel his face too much He'd let me, since he would love my touch He'd watch me sleeping ugly, with drool and farts and noise He'd probably record it to blackmail me later, Threatening with laughter to show it to all his friends But little would he know that I could do one greater: Revealing the albums of candid photos and videos in my phone And I wouldn't be able to help it, he would just be so cute-prone We may argue over something silly, something stupid, and I'd refuse to see him at all Looking away when he walks by and ignoring him when he talks to me He'd be hurt, and he would tell me that, my icy heart would melt away And I'd hug him so tight and apologize for being a meanie He wouldn't say anything, what if he doesn't hug me back? ...what if he never again placed his hands on my back? What if I ruin everything? If my personality is immature and strong He'll have had enough of it and he'll gently tell me he's letting me go I know I'll cry, asking if he still wants to keep the gifts I gave And my heart will be trembling as I fear he may say no... Because each moment was a whirlwind of him I'm afraid I'll ruin my future before it begins...

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Becoming... hmmm... what am I... becoming... is this the enlightenment of my trip? hmm... journeying through the seasons of inner time and place... therein which lies... a space.... not that sort.... not the sort of the spicky icky spacky... space... it's the... hmmm... sleepy space... I sit and wonder... this place is where I... ponder... fabric... the fabric of this life... I AM FLOATING INTO THIS CHAIR CONCEPT BANDS CONCEPT ALBUMS THAT'S WHAT I WANT TO SEE I AM JUST LIKE TIMOTHY LEARY ... but that... that is only a character.. the outlook I assume in..certain moods... that state of worry... that's what I mean. I am the wind the sea ... speak friend, enter... speak... speak to me. 'I see we meet again... hmmmm...' The music keeps changing my moods, you see... Subconscious... I must be more mindful... 'Increase mindfulness' I must bring the feelings... out don't shove them away... don't shove me away... on this normal squashy day Love your dark shadow love the wolves streams of consciousness I must cut up all of these streams I worry too much about the future... am I crazy? or just afraid of being... telepathy Here's this concept that I have that represents all of these feelings that I have that I tell to you and you receive as whatever feelings you associate with said concept and hope they match up I only write when I have something to preach... a sermon, you see.. yet I write every day... to preach a sermon to me 'Does it make me bad?' this way I am? does it make you.. mad? mushy swampy bog filled mushrooms I sag into the soppy plants in me this world is my swamp and this swamp is me into the swampy swamp I romp All day I ravage roam I stomp jive my vibe... Exotic exodus execution into the deep reeds paddling the little cellophane canoe Must... move... Must... go...

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Jan 13, 2014

Jan 13, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC

dr-don-the-night-tripper

The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test

Becoming... hmmm... what am I... becoming... is this the enlightenment of my trip? hmm... journeying through the seasons of inner time and place... therein which lies... a space.... not that sort.... not the sort of the spicky icky spacky... space... it's the... hmmm... sleepy space... I sit and wonder... this place is where I... ponder... fabric... the fabric of this life... I AM FLOATING INTO THIS CHAIR CONCEPT BANDS CONCEPT ALBUMS THAT'S WHAT I WANT TO SEE I AM JUST LIKE TIMOTHY LEARY ... but that... that is only a character.. the outlook I assume in..certain moods... that state of worry... that's what I mean. I am the wind the sea ... speak friend, enter... speak... speak to me. 'I see we meet again... hmmmm...' The music keeps changing my moods, you see... Subconscious... I must be more mindful... 'Increase mindfulness' I must bring the feelings... out don't shove them away... don't shove me away... on this normal squashy day Love your dark shadow love the wolves streams of consciousness I must cut up all of these streams I worry too much about the future... am I crazy? or just afraid of being... telepathy Here's this concept that I have that represents all of these feelings that I have that I tell to you and you receive as whatever feelings you associate with said concept and hope they match up I only write when I have something to preach... a sermon, you see.. yet I write every day... to preach a sermon to me 'Does it make me bad?' this way I am? does it make you.. mad? mushy swampy bog filled mushrooms I sag into the soppy plants in me this world is my swamp and this swamp is me into the swampy swamp I romp All day I ravage roam I stomp jive my vibe... Exotic exodus execution into the deep reeds paddling the little cellophane canoe Must... move... Must... go...

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Next time I act like a heartbroken Holmes, do me a favor and let me drink it away. Words hurt what whiskey soothes. I catch your name drifting away on a nimbus, past the trees of someone else’s hometown. Your eyes are bean sprouts and your scent is divorce. Your fingers are still placid, not yet ****** from the scratch of anxiety. Eyebrows bow to nose bone in speculative uncertainty, confusing rainy prom nights with dreams of Hercules. One more sip of wine will detonate firecracker cheeks. I hold your hand in secret on desolate city streets, remembering the practice of lost lovers and drunk ******* in dead friend’s beds and falling down staircases in mid-afternoon moonshine. Our pasts intertwine, just as West-coast tourist traps fill family photo albums.

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Oct 29, 2011

Oct 29, 2011 at 7:44 PM UTC

Regarding The Closeted Skeletons

Next time I act like a heartbroken Holmes, do me a favor and let me drink it away. Words hurt what whiskey soothes. I catch your name drifting away on a nimbus, past the trees of someone else’s hometown. Your eyes are bean sprouts and your scent is divorce. Your fingers are still placid, not yet ****** from the scratch of anxiety. Eyebrows bow to nose bone in speculative uncertainty, confusing rainy prom nights with dreams of Hercules. One more sip of wine will detonate firecracker cheeks. I hold your hand in secret on desolate city streets, remembering the practice of lost lovers and drunk ******* in dead friend’s beds and falling down staircases in mid-afternoon moonshine. Our pasts intertwine, just as West-coast tourist traps fill family photo albums.

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forgiveness for self is a thunderstorm ferocious, cracking sounds so god awful fearful that one questions his-her sanity, an overage so unnatural that only nature could create it it is a moment momentousness when the exhalation of exhaustion, the winner and loser, both you, surrender ne’er knowing which you is which, life’s son of ***** or just a plain jane mothering version, either way you say to yourself got to get past that lousy stinking love affair win the race to clean slate, where the end is insight where everything replaced in its used to be placed goaded into melted nothingness, goaded into believing that’s a real thing, that when you finally get there, enough is enough, get out of jail ticket will work, but it ain’t never free, even if you paid for it in what you call throwing bad after good, monopoly money, nope, ain’t never free no idea what to put in the second empty closet, who needs an attached to-the-wall-tile toothbrush holder with one extra emptying space, where to hide picture albums in a space outta sight, outta mind, you still can find why you didn’t care enough to daily mat-wipe street shoes before riveted in place before entering your own! apartment and no, you are consciously unconscious immobilized by the missing calling out of her “don’t forget” in the car’s ashtray, a red kissed blotted red lipstick tissue that needs discard-action, but you incapable of either, those collected records and cd’s, her teasing your old fashion ways, reluctance to let go so you read “that to forgive one self doesn’t forgive forgetting” and it hits home, home run, score to the core, since you wrote those words on a sun rain afternoon, a punctuating thunderstorm day refusing to decide which haunts worse <>

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Jun 30, 2019

Jun 30, 2019 at 5:04 PM UTC

“forgiving myself doesn’t forgive forgetting”

forgiveness for self is a thunderstorm ferocious, cracking sounds so god awful fearful that one questions his-her sanity, an overage so unnatural that only nature could create it it is a moment momentousness when the exhalation of exhaustion, the winner and loser, both you, surrender ne’er knowing which you is which, life’s son of ***** or just a plain jane mothering version, either way you say to yourself got to get past that lousy stinking love affair win the race to clean slate, where the end is insight where everything replaced in its used to be placed goaded into melted nothingness, goaded into believing that’s a real thing, that when you finally get there, enough is enough, get out of jail ticket will work, but it ain’t never free, even if you paid for it in what you call throwing bad after good, monopoly money, nope, ain’t never free no idea what to put in the second empty closet, who needs an attached to-the-wall-tile toothbrush holder with one extra emptying space, where to hide picture albums in a space outta sight, outta mind, you still can find why you didn’t care enough to daily mat-wipe street shoes before riveted in place before entering your own! apartment and no, you are consciously unconscious immobilized by the missing calling out of her “don’t forget” in the car’s ashtray, a red kissed blotted red lipstick tissue that needs discard-action, but you incapable of either, those collected records and cd’s, her teasing your old fashion ways, reluctance to let go so you read “that to forgive one self doesn’t forgive forgetting” and it hits home, home run, score to the core, since you wrote those words on a sun rain afternoon, a punctuating thunderstorm day refusing to decide which haunts worse <>

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It aches me to see How memories can fade Like smeared pages of a book Yellowed and crumbling Like the falling leaves of autumn It aches me to see How misty the images are Like freshly printed polaroids Preserve but then forgotten Like old baby albums It aches me to realize Though how hard we try Memories just wane Even the most precious Even those we treasure the most

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Nov 29, 2015

Nov 29, 2015 at 12:25 AM UTC

It aches me to see How memories can fade Like smeared pages of a book Yellowed and crumbling Like the falling leaves of autumn It aches me to see How misty the images are Like freshly printed polaroids Preserve but then forgotten Like old baby albums It aches me to realize Though how hard we try Memories just wane Even the most precious Even those we treasure the most

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I feel most lonely when sitting at my computer. There is the promise of knowledge, creativity, friends, love, companionship, shared ideals and inspiration. But the reality of constant connectivity is quite different. Bullying goes on outside of school. Oppressive people find each other and a platform to taunt and torment their victims. Idiots band together and spread stupidity like a modern black plague. Intelligent ideas are challenged and the people who thought them up as stupid. Creativity is put down and judged. People are separated instead of united. And love? Love seems to be non existent as the ignorant people who turn on their computers to put down good and promote evil don't even realise that there is a real person on the other side of that screen, and even then some do. My news feed is full of bad news. Full of sexism, **** inequality, torment, animal abuse, war, ignorance, stupidity oppression, child abuse and ultimately hate. I realise the collective imagination is dying when I can't even remember what it is I did before this accursed computer came into my life and took over. My rewards are nothing but imagined friends and fake conversations over text, we're communicating but not connecting, something in me longs to be back when if I didn't meet my friends regularly we lost touch because that is how real relationships are supposed to work. With care, effort, meet ups and real conversation. Emotion instead of emoticons. Care instead of clicks. Laughter instead of likes. When photographs were precious personal memories rather than a trophy of 'look where I am' 'look how pretty I am' 'look at how much fun we're having' and sharing them meant a coffee or a few beers and a trip down memory lane flipping through dusty photo albums and laughing at your awful clothes, make up, hair and the state you were in rather than scrolling back through your online albums alone and commenting on how horrendous your photoshop jobs on some of them are. When people were living their life for themselves rather than living to try and impress others. When it was face to face rather than facebook to facebook. I feel most lonely when sitting at my computer.

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Nov 14, 2014

Nov 14, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC

I feel most lonely when sitting at my computer. There is the promise of knowledge, creativity, friends, love, companionship, shared ideals and inspiration. But the reality of constant connectivity is quite different. Bullying goes on outside of school. Oppressive people find each other and a platform to taunt and torment their victims. Idiots band together and spread stupidity like a modern black plague. Intelligent ideas are challenged and the people who thought them up as stupid. Creativity is put down and judged. People are separated instead of united. And love? Love seems to be non existent as the ignorant people who turn on their computers to put down good and promote evil don't even realise that there is a real person on the other side of that screen, and even then some do. My news feed is full of bad news. Full of sexism, **** inequality, torment, animal abuse, war, ignorance, stupidity oppression, child abuse and ultimately hate. I realise the collective imagination is dying when I can't even remember what it is I did before this accursed computer came into my life and took over. My rewards are nothing but imagined friends and fake conversations over text, we're communicating but not connecting, something in me longs to be back when if I didn't meet my friends regularly we lost touch because that is how real relationships are supposed to work. With care, effort, meet ups and real conversation. Emotion instead of emoticons. Care instead of clicks. Laughter instead of likes. When photographs were precious personal memories rather than a trophy of 'look where I am' 'look how pretty I am' 'look at how much fun we're having' and sharing them meant a coffee or a few beers and a trip down memory lane flipping through dusty photo albums and laughing at your awful clothes, make up, hair and the state you were in rather than scrolling back through your online albums alone and commenting on how horrendous your photoshop jobs on some of them are. When people were living their life for themselves rather than living to try and impress others. When it was face to face rather than facebook to facebook. I feel most lonely when sitting at my computer.

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There's a plethora of albums in my mind And a good deal weighing on my heart My brain desires fluctuation Bipolar fixations based around emotion And Unicorns with rainbows on blue, wearable ocean And everything is a microcosm seemingly inconsequential When looked at solely from the view of entrusting it to You And all the fear that rides the coattails of such a decision.

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Jun 29, 2013

Jun 29, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC

There's a Brunette on my Radar

There's a plethora of albums in my mind And a good deal weighing on my heart My brain desires fluctuation Bipolar fixations based around emotion And Unicorns with rainbows on blue, wearable ocean And everything is a microcosm seemingly inconsequential When looked at solely from the view of entrusting it to You And all the fear that rides the coattails of such a decision.

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Inspired by George Ella Lyon's poem Where I am From I am from cul-de-sacs From skinned knees and seven speed bikes I am from the bewitching perfume of the osmanthus bloom mingling with freshly mown grass I am from the familiar music of the bubbling creek and the cardinals song the swish of a golf club and the thud of a soccer ball I am from hot pavement on bare feet, the taste of honeysuckles, and reaching pine tree forests whose invisible trails and clearings became my secret empire I am from airplanes and home cooking From Mary and Mark northern accents and southern hospitality I am from "use your manners" and "Not enough month left at the end if the money" I am from sunday school and patent leather shoes that pinch my toes from a prayer before dinner that is carved into my brain I am from poland from poppyseed kuchen and kielbasa I am from my grandmother forgetting baking soda in the bread and then... years later, forgetting me too. I am from my grandfather's sense of humor and his unwavering stubbornness. I am from too many cousins to count from pinched cheeks and "How you've grown!" I am from piles of unfinished photo albums brimming with new adventures, frozen faces, and old memories I am from the path I carved for myself with tools that my parents bestowed upon me.

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Apr 8, 2013

Apr 8, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC

Where I Am From

Inspired by George Ella Lyon's poem Where I am From I am from cul-de-sacs From skinned knees and seven speed bikes I am from the bewitching perfume of the osmanthus bloom mingling with freshly mown grass I am from the familiar music of the bubbling creek and the cardinals song the swish of a golf club and the thud of a soccer ball I am from hot pavement on bare feet, the taste of honeysuckles, and reaching pine tree forests whose invisible trails and clearings became my secret empire I am from airplanes and home cooking From Mary and Mark northern accents and southern hospitality I am from "use your manners" and "Not enough month left at the end if the money" I am from sunday school and patent leather shoes that pinch my toes from a prayer before dinner that is carved into my brain I am from poland from poppyseed kuchen and kielbasa I am from my grandmother forgetting baking soda in the bread and then... years later, forgetting me too. I am from my grandfather's sense of humor and his unwavering stubbornness. I am from too many cousins to count from pinched cheeks and "How you've grown!" I am from piles of unfinished photo albums brimming with new adventures, frozen faces, and old memories I am from the path I carved for myself with tools that my parents bestowed upon me.

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Can I show you how beautiful you are? Can I take out the old photo albums and push my index finger into the faces, the places, and seas? I want to peel back the plastic and remove the square photographs from their sticky setting. I'm alluding to ideas that exist more formidably on the internet- there are no paper photographs, no sticky settings, there aren't even faces in the numbers; it's only ever been you or me. Some of my things are crooked. The strings don't work, the wires are twisted and make the sounds all come out funny. There's a strange buzzing everywhere, it's like Mickey's gray cloud, a cloud Koopa throwing spiked shells from Park Avenue beach to Montrose street. Everything is quiet, consuming, unassuming and still recalcitrant. I'm showing nothing to nobody. Coaxing storm systems and netting foul play and ***** tricks, with my pants around my ankles or my fly unzipped. I'm stinking of this stuff. These sudorific crevices on the insides of my thighs. I'm more or less always pacing. Rocking. Rolling. Small room I'm living room, cadavers I stuff my skinny fingers inside of- cold, wet hollow places I'm seeking skin covered gods in. I'm craving tastes and flavors. I'm looking at these pictures of me, of my face and the clothes I wore, the people that knew me. Where have I disappeared to? Every place that I went, every condition of my humanness has gone. Five minutes past my certainty, squirting hot molten magma from my **** my lips, and my fingertips. Hysterical thoughts and homily. I want just a hello. I want just a hello.

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Apr 26, 2014

Apr 26, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC

Can I show you how beautiful you are? Can I take out the old photo albums and push my index finger into the faces, the places, and seas? I want to peel back the plastic and remove the square photographs from their sticky setting. I'm alluding to ideas that exist more formidably on the internet- there are no paper photographs, no sticky settings, there aren't even faces in the numbers; it's only ever been you or me. Some of my things are crooked. The strings don't work, the wires are twisted and make the sounds all come out funny. There's a strange buzzing everywhere, it's like Mickey's gray cloud, a cloud Koopa throwing spiked shells from Park Avenue beach to Montrose street. Everything is quiet, consuming, unassuming and still recalcitrant. I'm showing nothing to nobody. Coaxing storm systems and netting foul play and ***** tricks, with my pants around my ankles or my fly unzipped. I'm stinking of this stuff. These sudorific crevices on the insides of my thighs. I'm more or less always pacing. Rocking. Rolling. Small room I'm living room, cadavers I stuff my skinny fingers inside of- cold, wet hollow places I'm seeking skin covered gods in. I'm craving tastes and flavors. I'm looking at these pictures of me, of my face and the clothes I wore, the people that knew me. Where have I disappeared to? Every place that I went, every condition of my humanness has gone. Five minutes past my certainty, squirting hot molten magma from my **** my lips, and my fingertips. Hysterical thoughts and homily. I want just a hello. I want just a hello.

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With special thanks to George Ella Lyon I am from crumbling brick (red, dusty, smelling of musk). I am from aluminum siding and triple-deckers, tall, strong, unmovable. Hailing from the city on about seventy hills. From Grandfathers and photo albums, cigar ash salad and pinecone wars. From "use your imagination" and "go play in the street". I am from a whirlwind of faith, belief from non-believers. From schoolyards, playgrounds, and crawlspaces come these faces, and these memories are worth more to me, than anything.

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Sep 22, 2010

Sep 22, 2010 at 7:02 PM UTC

And Here Come the Juniors

With special thanks to George Ella Lyon I am from crumbling brick (red, dusty, smelling of musk). I am from aluminum siding and triple-deckers, tall, strong, unmovable. Hailing from the city on about seventy hills. From Grandfathers and photo albums, cigar ash salad and pinecone wars. From "use your imagination" and "go play in the street". I am from a whirlwind of faith, belief from non-believers. From schoolyards, playgrounds, and crawlspaces come these faces, and these memories are worth more to me, than anything.

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Resume: Jewel de Saex Address: Lost somewhere up the hills. email: [email protected] Tel: + network not available Summary Hire me if: you are looking for an adventure. Clouds, gorges, and I never disappoint, for we can cry. Education Bachelor, Mistress and Widower at the University of Zoya, majoring in Life Sciences, with a minor in the applications of horseshoe magnets. Expertise I know them laws of attraction well + New languages: both Silicon and Carbon-based ++ Magic, luck and fate. Experience For years I steered a boat riding a rough river that passed storms every day. I was the rain-maker, I can bring tears to any passing cloud by my mere hand-gesture: (all the dough-kneading.) I was also the chief gardener for Loz, whose farms at the other end of the Earth I visited by the switch door in my old photo-albums each day. Skills Jugglery, innovative use of cutlery, reading runes, plucking prunes, riding boats on dunes, talking by eyes, hearing by sight. References: Not available even on request. *NOtes: + Turn pages back and you always find, only one person was in love. ++ I can decipher the meanings in the lispings of cherubs and angels. I understand the cloud and the river, as of men in any tongue.*

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Mar 11, 2015

Mar 11, 2015 at 3:15 PM UTC

Por lo tanto somos | The Hermit

Resume: Jewel de Saex Address: Lost somewhere up the hills. email: [email protected] Tel: + network not available Summary Hire me if: you are looking for an adventure. Clouds, gorges, and I never disappoint, for we can cry. Education Bachelor, Mistress and Widower at the University of Zoya, majoring in Life Sciences, with a minor in the applications of horseshoe magnets. Expertise I know them laws of attraction well + New languages: both Silicon and Carbon-based ++ Magic, luck and fate. Experience For years I steered a boat riding a rough river that passed storms every day. I was the rain-maker, I can bring tears to any passing cloud by my mere hand-gesture: (all the dough-kneading.) I was also the chief gardener for Loz, whose farms at the other end of the Earth I visited by the switch door in my old photo-albums each day. Skills Jugglery, innovative use of cutlery, reading runes, plucking prunes, riding boats on dunes, talking by eyes, hearing by sight. References: Not available even on request. *NOtes: + Turn pages back and you always find, only one person was in love. ++ I can decipher the meanings in the lispings of cherubs and angels. I understand the cloud and the river, as of men in any tongue.*

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I keep flipping through photo albums, smiling fondly at pictures of me taking my first steps, playing in delight, holding hands once in a while. I keep flipping and they seem to come to life; the colors glaring, the rush of the sounds and smell embrace me for comfort, it seems like yesterday I stood there, smiling a toothy smile, thinking this was the best day of my life. It feels good to flip through photo albums, they never fray and serve to remind. It will be alright.

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May 12, 2015

May 12, 2015 at 5:01 AM UTC

I keep flipping through photo albums, smiling fondly at pictures of me taking my first steps, playing in delight, holding hands once in a while. I keep flipping and they seem to come to life; the colors glaring, the rush of the sounds and smell embrace me for comfort, it seems like yesterday I stood there, smiling a toothy smile, thinking this was the best day of my life. It feels good to flip through photo albums, they never fray and serve to remind. It will be alright.

Continue reading...