An end is nigh and crows will fall
Yet through it all I refuse
The Devil will dance and the aegis breaks
At the inchoate bowel
Even the skinner barely killed
And hell rides can be a thrill
All inspired by the weak
The searchlight’s lust will be filled
Oh pity me darling for the cutting begun
But the pendulum at a halt
For I am blind to the night’s red
In my mouth the taste of salt
All inspired by the weak
The searchlight’s lust will be filled
It was a coward for success
Just as the misery
But I promise you it’s hotter in hell
Let us go together in bliss
Even the skinner barely killed
And hell rides can be a thrill
All inspired by the false
The eye’s lust will be filled
Oh pity me darling for the cutting begun
But the pendulum at a halt
I hate the crust of night’s tears
Let us dance in your opus cult
Although I’m burning
I swear I’m free
Though tonight I watch the doves fall down
They will fly tomorrow you see
Even if today the humor mask is true
It is not your face
Through my denial it will break
Wearing it you will rue
No don’t pity me friends
For I am king
And forever
It is my slave
______
Yeah all you TNP guys
This is sorta a little song thingy I wrote
See what you think
Monday, April 6, 2009
Friday, April 3, 2009
The Textbook of Enlightenment
He had a problem
A burden
He knew it all
Everyone saw it in the least
He himself could not look at his infamous eyes with a look of passion
He was a "god"
and all with a sense of perfection
People around him try so hard
And try to grasp something larger
Which only angered him
They knew nothing
He knew true chaos
The small world around the people was nothing yet in this he meant nothing to them
Which also angered him
Knowing everything can end in only knowing so little
Damn those small minded
They know only what is around them and get their insignificant pleasure through primitive thought
His one wish is to destroy them in their puny nothingness
But he feared his father
If only gods could die
--------
sigh
This isnt really anything
Just self expression
-Jake
A burden
He knew it all
Everyone saw it in the least
He himself could not look at his infamous eyes with a look of passion
He was a "god"
and all with a sense of perfection
People around him try so hard
And try to grasp something larger
Which only angered him
They knew nothing
He knew true chaos
The small world around the people was nothing yet in this he meant nothing to them
Which also angered him
Knowing everything can end in only knowing so little
Damn those small minded
They know only what is around them and get their insignificant pleasure through primitive thought
His one wish is to destroy them in their puny nothingness
But he feared his father
If only gods could die
--------
sigh
This isnt really anything
Just self expression
-Jake
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Incomprehensible
I think the reason I really like it when the weather’s force is so prominent is because it starts to feel like the wind itself, or the rain, or the snow, or whatever, is actually a part of something that has order. It makes me feel like I have a friend, or a companion, and when I open up the door, and the winds blowing so hard that it rips it out of my hand scaring the shit out of me, it makes me feel like maybe, the wind is just having a bad day. And that for once it’s being selfish and it isn’t thinking about being gentle, so as not to hurt the human beings. I mean, I get that nothing is connected. Or at least, I get that there’s a possibility that nothing’s connected. I once read in this book called Accepting the Universe by John Burroughs, that said weather isn’t a negative thing; not even when it hurts us. It really makes a whole hell of a lot of sense, because the weather is just the weather, and its’ just happening. It’s not making any consideration to the humans, because we ourselves are just part of nature too. Usually, I think of stuff like that before I end up reading it in a book. But that time, I happened to read it before I got to think it up myself. Personally, ever since I was a little little girl, I always loved the weather. I’m not talking the quiet stuff either though. Until I turned about 12 maybe, I swear I wanted to be a tornado chaser.
There’s something about tragedy that I can’t get enough of. Some weird, twisted, sadistic part of me that wants to have to suffer. I don’t mean it in a suicidal way. I just mean being so close to something so much bigger than me… seeing how easily it can just be without thinking about other people… it makes me want to cry, but in a good way.
It just is.
I know there’s more to my fascination for it.
I feel like the explanation I just gave only touched on the reasons behind it.
But I really can’t place it.
I just know that I get this rush in me. Something that has a root, embedded so deep underneath all of the shit that’s piled on top of what once was my core central being, that can explain just exactly what the fuck I mean. Maybe I just want to be miserable. Because misery is true passion, and with that kind of misery, you never have to question if it’s justified. If I was more eloquent, maybe I could write a real book. Maybe I could take all the things that make me feel like I’m alive, and put them somewhere; compile them, so they make sense.
But the problem is, sometimes, putting ideas in to stories destroy them a little bit. Just imagine, a singular solitary image, or a mysterious, insightful kid, with a childish face, upon who’s surface gazes eyes that you knew held things like clarity you could only imagine. Imagine that this kid was always eating apples, and imagine that he always cut them with a pocket knife.
I can like that kid right now.
But the minute I throw him in with a story lacking passion for everything other than him, it’s like I’ve diagnosed him with a terminal illness. Soon, I’ll relate him to that that stupid story.
And eventually, I’ll end up hating him. Just like I’ve hated all the other characters I once cherished so much in the past.
Because I can’t show anyone else what I mean by clarity, and wisdom. No one but me can understand what I mean when I say the kid has an understanding of things unfathomable.
And in the end, he just ends up getting lost. Thrown in with all the others, once so precious in the mind of their creators, now so warn, and used and tarnished, from being thrown from lips of people who take the idea, and form them in to their own.
They’re only dead to the creators.
Which is why, I think I’d rather keep my characters locked up inside my head.
Where they continue to remain precious.
Where no one can tell me they’re cliché.
Because the way I think about them; they’re really not.
---------------------------------------
Hey,
I know it's been kind of long.
This is the first chance I've had to be on a computer
and I didn't even mean too
but I just started thinking
and putting things down in to words
it's not really a story.
but it's what i really believe in.
by the way
this is Miranda.
There’s something about tragedy that I can’t get enough of. Some weird, twisted, sadistic part of me that wants to have to suffer. I don’t mean it in a suicidal way. I just mean being so close to something so much bigger than me… seeing how easily it can just be without thinking about other people… it makes me want to cry, but in a good way.
It just is.
I know there’s more to my fascination for it.
I feel like the explanation I just gave only touched on the reasons behind it.
But I really can’t place it.
I just know that I get this rush in me. Something that has a root, embedded so deep underneath all of the shit that’s piled on top of what once was my core central being, that can explain just exactly what the fuck I mean. Maybe I just want to be miserable. Because misery is true passion, and with that kind of misery, you never have to question if it’s justified. If I was more eloquent, maybe I could write a real book. Maybe I could take all the things that make me feel like I’m alive, and put them somewhere; compile them, so they make sense.
But the problem is, sometimes, putting ideas in to stories destroy them a little bit. Just imagine, a singular solitary image, or a mysterious, insightful kid, with a childish face, upon who’s surface gazes eyes that you knew held things like clarity you could only imagine. Imagine that this kid was always eating apples, and imagine that he always cut them with a pocket knife.
I can like that kid right now.
But the minute I throw him in with a story lacking passion for everything other than him, it’s like I’ve diagnosed him with a terminal illness. Soon, I’ll relate him to that that stupid story.
And eventually, I’ll end up hating him. Just like I’ve hated all the other characters I once cherished so much in the past.
Because I can’t show anyone else what I mean by clarity, and wisdom. No one but me can understand what I mean when I say the kid has an understanding of things unfathomable.
And in the end, he just ends up getting lost. Thrown in with all the others, once so precious in the mind of their creators, now so warn, and used and tarnished, from being thrown from lips of people who take the idea, and form them in to their own.
They’re only dead to the creators.
Which is why, I think I’d rather keep my characters locked up inside my head.
Where they continue to remain precious.
Where no one can tell me they’re cliché.
Because the way I think about them; they’re really not.
---------------------------------------
Hey,
I know it's been kind of long.
This is the first chance I've had to be on a computer
and I didn't even mean too
but I just started thinking
and putting things down in to words
it's not really a story.
but it's what i really believe in.
by the way
this is Miranda.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
My Sanctuary
The bullet felt cool and harmless in Mark's palm. He turned it over and over, and the metal soon grew warm. Without thinking and hesitation, Mark slid the bullet into the chamber. He spun the barrel and it spun around in circles. He flipped the revolver sharply to the right, and the barrel swung into its respective place. Reaching up with his thumb, he clicked back the hammer. Looking at the other man, Mark raised the revolver to his head. Without blinking, he squeezed the trigger, and the ever peaceful 'click' rung through his head. He smiled, and held out the revolver to the man. He was a white man, maybe in his late twenties, early thirties, quite the young age to risk his life for money. He was clean shaven, and wore a brilliant white polo shirt-a high possibility that the pureness of the shirt would be ruined, and never to be washed. His eyes darted around the room, in an ever nervous way. Mark could tell he didn't want to be there. Mark just smiled and said the incriminating words "Do it." That was enough to push the man to spin the barrel, click back the hammer, and point the gun at his own head.
Mark noticed something interesting about the man, besides the fact that he had the balls to try and best him at his favorite game. He noticed that the man's lower lip trembled a little bit every time Mark's head wasn't destroyed by the bullet. The man had a golden band on his left hand, signifying that he was married. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot, even before he started playing. Mark held out his hand, lowering the gun.
"What's your story?" He asked the man. Mark knew that he didn't belong here, in a dark basement of the bar, where a countless amount of blood was spilt on the walls and floor. "A man just doesn't do this unless he's sure of himself."
"W-well…" The man started to say. "I-I was fired a few weeks ago… then the week after that, my parents died in a car crash. A month later my family had no money to pay for the bills, s-so my wife left with my daughter." Tears started to spill down his cheek, and run off of the revolver. "I couldn't handle it anymore, so… I… I…" He squeezed the trigger, and the 'click' sounded out again. He sighed in relief and passed the gun over. Mark held it up to his head and pulled, and the 'click' sounded again. He passed it back to the man.
"What's your name?" Mark asked him.
"C-Carl…" The man hesitantly replied. He pulled the trigger-nothing. Only the ever familiar click. Carl made a weird noise that came from deep in his throat-a kind of whimper mixed with a groan and passed the gun over. The crowd that gathered around them were starting to grow restless. They came and bet money to see someone die, yet none of them had their money yet. Mark took the gun and raised it to his head. "W-why do you do it?"
"What, this?" Mark referred to the gun. Carl nodded slowly. Mark smiled. "I'm married. I have children, a house, and a job. Everything you don't have. The only thing you have that I don't is peace. You're very peaceful for a man in your position, y'know that?" He continued smiling. "The only way I can find solace is in this…" He shook the gun in his hand. "This… is my sanctuary… my release." He squeezed the trigger, and for a split second it seemed like time had slowed. He saw the bright whiteness that was Carl's polo shirt. He noticed how vibrant all of the colors were in the room. He even noticed one of the tiniest fruit flies, buzzing around in front of the two. And the last he remembered was the last thing he said.
"My Sanctuary… My release…"
-Jon
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
