Interlude.

What's your favourite colour?"
A question that has lived with me throughout my entire years.
With confidence I said "purple"
They always asked me why. I never really gave them the most appropriate answer. Mainly because when I was young, purple made me feel different. Girls were always expected to love a certain pink, to always follow that order. Purple made me feel superior.
Made me all sorts of different.
Always a good different.

Little did I know.

Purple stains*.

Tomorrow is a day closer to our day.
Everyday is a day closer to ours.

I sit on this wooden chair,
Listening to it creak as my body makes a frontward backward motion.
I stare aimlessly at the road ahead.
Wondering.
Always wondering.

"Annoyed with the World?" she puts her tiny soft hands on my shoulder.
Making me feel the heat radiating from her.
I continue to look forward. Already knowing where she's going at.

"The perks of being an Eccedentist",she whispers.
"The secret of this pain lies deep within but can only be seen by our kind".
I sigh, massaging my temples. Not really feeling the need to hear what more she has to say.
In attempt to run away, I pick my heavy battered body up and start to walk away.
She chuckles light hearted "Running again I guess?"
"How long will you deny these stains? How long will your body handle them? Don't run away. Talk to me"

Her words remind me of a certain everybody. Always telling me that they want to listen.
To comfort me.
But they don't understand, I'm not trying to get pity or supposed heartfelt advice.
I don't want that.

I continue to walk away from her, counting every step that takes me further from her view.

"I am in pain", I whisper to the winds.
"I've got bruises so deep that they have turned into scars. The kind that stains every part of me"
"I want to cry", I slouch my body.
"But what point is it to waste my tears on someone that has put me on hold? Should I really be doing this. Crying so loud for love that existed only for their benefit"
"I'm an instrument of pain", I laugh.
"He is my composer. With each stroke, with each beat. He creates harmonious symphonies that leave the crowd bewildered. He creates a wave of sensual vocals that lead me breathless and in pain"
"People love his work, they love to listen to the beats of my drained heart,  the soft strum of my throaty voice", I sigh.

My body is at halt. I can no longer continue to walk.
With that, I fall heavy on my knees.
Hands on the rough sand.
Head trying to bury itself deeper.
"Everyday is a day closer to ours", I cry.

My body shakes feverishly letting out the pain.
My throat cracks in attempt to let my voice be heard.
My heart shatters even more. My mind flustered and goes black.
My eyes are bloodshot, but no tears.
It's only been a few months but it feels like years.
Holding on to him. To this pain.
I try to get a grip onto the soil but my body fails.
I fall, now laying on the ground.
Whispering, crying to it.
Finally letting someone in.

"I told you, that only I understand you", she crouches and releases a small smile.

She squints her eyes and croaks her head.
"What's your favourite colour? "

I keep quiet. Not from embarrassment but from exhaustion of this cycle. I'm always caught at my worst.
Why must I always be caught.

"No answer", She sighs
"How do you expect to get over this if you don't talk? " she whispers harshly

I sigh, I shut my eyes in hopes for her to disappear.
I can't handle playing to her. For her own comfort that her life is somewhat better than mine.
This instrument, is worn out.

"I'm still here you know. And I'm not trying to save you. I could never do that. I'm not him",I hear
"I just can't watch you break down like this anymore. I don't want you to feel what I felt", she coughs.
"I'm not here for saving. If you refuse to talk of your pain at least let me in on your favourite colour ", she pleads.

"Purple", I murmur

"Just like the colour of your stains",she laughs.

Fluorescent uplit lights
Throws no shadows
Shows no life
No vestiges therein

Monitors' frontward glow
Radiates no future, no past
Well lit death
No matrix destination

The rows and cubes behold
A conformed neatness
An oppression
A regime built against creation

The soul flutters above
Unseen but seeming
To hold life
The inexorable dullness of life

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I rest my hand upon the giant rock called Dark One. I feel him relax as he gets used to the feeling of flesh breaking the sensation of water and salt. As he exhales, so do i.
I lean over a ledge, holding on to Dark One, to feel a sense of secure danger. I no longer feel the ground, I no longer feel my feet. The salty mist of the ocean sprays my face, flipping my hair frontward and back. As I lean over Dark One’s feet, I contemplate what I will do next. My grip on Dark One becomes loose, and for a moment, I feel the sense of danger I had asked for. For a moment, I felt release. In that moment, with security, Dark One saved me.
 I bring myself closer to Dark One, and press myself to his cold, wet frame. I can almost feel him lifting up and down, breathing. I feel myself lifting. There is nothing beneath me. There is only Dark One in front of me. “Where are you taking me, Dark One?” I ask through my spirit. “I am removing your sorrows, I am taking your pain” he says. As he spoke, I grew numb in my legs, then my core, as it passed my *****, I smiled in a sighed relief.  I took my last breath and I became part of Dark One.

I can no longer move, I no longer need breathe. I gaze out over upon the sea as its salty mist sprays Dark One and me.

Thumbs hooked through jean belt loops,

pulling her to you.

You kiss.

Over and over again, you kiss:

so many quick little pecks in a row.

I hope you don't

kiss your mother like that,

but is SHE your mama bird?

It's like you take nourishment

from her kisses.

Is she dropping

food into your mouth?



So greedy,

can't get enough.

Of her time, either.

The odd purity that comes

from being complemented

for the first time this way.

How she leans against your knee,

she's the missing puzzle piece.

The crook of her neck, there,

just there.

The pressure where she uses you

for a chin rest.

During any violent-as-you-wish

T.V. show and

she'd even be

cool to chill with you when

you're with your bro's.

Though alone time is the best.



All that you could ask for,

through hills and valleys

you ride along.

Everything is smooth and firm,

smooth and firm.

Smooth, no hiccup in the road.

Firm is the belief in

the reliability of the course.

They're hot;

the heat

rushes through them,

complete.

Ain't never gonna feel

this way again.

Not with anybody else.

You two could lie in bed all day.



We're making relationship flambe.

A secret recipe of

inside jokes and

somebody finally wanting your ingredients,

lit afire by some mystery combustible.

You'd deny 'til you were hoarse

that it's only flash in the pan.



Until one day, it seems like-

how can you have

all these shared memories,

all this love,

yet it's still as if the person standing there

is barely the same person from before?



No more pulling her frontward or backward

by her belt loops,

always pulling her toward

the pulse of your passion.

But  the beat of love's life, at least,

grows faint, and she threatens

to take you out with it.

He'd seen her raise the gun,

for all the good it did.

A bullet hole in his forehead

And it's like his third eye's crying blood.



He didn't want to see

what he saw too long ago.

And he just delayed their misery.

Do you take your meat rare?

This cut's dripping in disillusion,

the animal neutralized, a dead

bag of blood and bones.

No; you're still

all-too human, though.

Alone in a room, it's all you can do

to remember to breathe.

But that's step one.

My advice. Let noone knock you down, noone! When they do get back up, humans seem to wanna bring another down anymore. What the hell happened? Where's the one helping the less fortunate out? Where's the one where love is love and hate is past tense . where are we as a kind! ? Helping another? Giving to another! Knowing what's in your purse or wallet isn't all there is to life! Life's **** precious. So ponder this word. Take it as it is. Even when I'm having a bad day at work, home, or anywhere I well know to treat others good. If we start treating others like we want to be treated we might get somewhere, yet seems we're going backwards not frontward on. What happened? Guess that's for each individual to decide.

the sky, grey and condescending
brings the reminder of the non-stop grandfather clock
cased in old oak with its frontward face
wise with history
these days go by as i sit and rot
in self inflicted solitary confinement
overwhelmed and stuck
behind an open window
watching through as the sun and moon
rotate without knowledge
of my internal afflictions

Straightening files and writing names.
Of fables, tales and speeches of unseen.
Where word of the fantastical align with his aims,
So there sat Albert, finding what he could glean.

"Where does the light go from here?
Where will I be when I die?
I wish not to be in hell, no line will I do there.
To heaven I feel most unlikely for I.

Juniper... I wonder where you would go.
Where the world would have you be.
I wonder to which place you would sow.
I wish you were here with me."

The poor man continued his sorting.
His plans, his ideas and their action with do.
And when all with which shined divine, became that reporting.
He took all with a sword to keep and run through.

For the words in the paper.
The lines in sand.
Wash away with lies much greater,
Than truth unable to stand.

Albert looked at the cross, he studied its wood.
The smooth lacquer that bore his touch.
And where the lines of his studies, of all that is good.
Turned dour eyes as a crutch.

"Where does god to be with man, hold in esteem?
The frontward facing pain in my heart.
Of a woman gone, folded in the seems,
Of a world that is tearing me apart."

He pondered and drew yonder to in a sigh.
And there was no one to listen.
And there was no answer from on high.
And so Albert moved on, he moved as if stricken.

I pull at this rope ladder, adjoining these cliffs.
Umbridge with my crawl to the other side.
Myopic days spin the wheel, sputtering in fits.
Arms and legs of a forgotten bride.

Feathers of a bird flutter to the bouquet.
Jumping at the opportunity of a happy lucky life.
Dwellings shroud the ghetto in dismay.
And you went home without me, to your side.

Feels good to get it all out.
That without you, I feel a broken man.
Tallow and sloth from me you are without.
Your impression of me a ghost, a memory and as well, a brand.

Frontward we walk at the same goal.
But without eyes there is no love I could know.
My very depth, my heart beckons your soul.
And yours deaf, as its silence tells me to go.

Like petals falling on the ocean.
My thoughts of you still linger on.
They fight, they coil and in motion.
Rest in the words of this psalm.