Remnants and Remins of Apocolypse

Remains of apocolypse, scattered across the aspholt walk ways of my physical being. A fun place; time; ride. One word to describe: sarcasm. Great days! A week and a half just compounded into pills and vomit-pills. Parks and recreation has not even bothered to clean and fix my long lasting remains. If parks and recreations was medicine, and blankets, and pillows, and television, and naps, and water. Wait, one more word. This time; to describe my need, my want, my yearning. The word? Salvation.

If you had a line chart that measured my level of sickness for the last couple of days, and thought about those machines in the hospital that measure heart rate; I would be dead if I was measured with that thing... Not sunken completely to the bottom of the screen in a straight line. But almost at the bottom in a straight line...

It makes me question myself and the level of "positivity" I can accumulate. I estimate that at this moment I can rack up as much "positivity" as an old 90 year old can grow. I call it "it", so when ever I refer to being sick i say "Oh no I have 'it' ". It just makes me shiver in grief that my pleading and whining for assistance didn't assist me very well...

The pesky media! Oh they make me really...really... ("angry" sounds a bit fierce for my mood so I have reached the decision that I am going to say "irate") irate! It is a mouthful and loads of rubbish. Stop and think... I don't believe that I have ever mentioned the word "rubbish". Although it would be nice to hear someone read this in a British accent... Totally over exaggerated and payed for by the government so it can make the government so it can look "great and heroic because that is what America is all about". Now what did the media actually do? Oh, nothing much... Just that they blew a certain sickness out of proportion so certain people were afraid they might catch it from a certain someone and it almost ruined a certain someones day and I (ahem, I mean a certain someone...) was enraged and had daydreams of hurting a certain group of people through wires of my rage. It's an abyss, honestly. I won't tell you anymore because a) it's a long story b) you really won't care.

Well, that is in the past! Something someone else would say. The most vexatious thing I have ever come across. It reminds me of how stupid people can be with the way they handle life. Literally, this could be the conversation.

Guy 1: Hey man!
Guy 2: What's up
Guy 1: Nothing, you?
Guy 2: Dad just died, lost a friend to a racoon...
Guy 1: Aw dude! Leave it be! Bury your emotions deep in your sould for all eternity so you can relish in your rage when you brun in hell!
Guy 2 walks away and ends friendship... FOREVER

Now my point is stated! How would you feel if someone said that to you?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

A Lot of Italic

Past. Present. Future. Time isn't relavint to me, ever. What seemed to be this turned to be that. I'm not enclosed as usual, out their for everyone to see, now. An unknown presence; sometimes I just hate compliments. Wow? The part of my writing that makes sense died yesterday... 'Cause I killed him... yes I did. But my brethren Hades can bring his soul back to me. I'm making a guess that this is just a system of vents that are filled with the aroma of random and silly and serious and well...complex, thoughts.

1.That song, that song that song that song! It won't leave me alone now matter how hard I try to push it away and out of my head... Out of my head you, you, you, you ugly butt-face!
2. I hate this headache I want to punch the wall really really hard!
3. I'm screaming inside...
4. You can never look at a glass half full, it is always both half full and half empty...
5. The media can exagerate my life in ways but I don't watch the news much...
6. Just one more thought....
7. Next post: from my notebook, every thing after this is from my notebook...
7.

Seven Day Circle Woo-hoo...

A full circle would be the description of my journey the past week... Seven days of sick. I slowly walk along the boundaries of this slim crater, one time around and I'm back at the bottom of the pit. I'm a normal casualty to the sickness, but it really likes me this time around... Who put sandpaper in my throat? Who shoved the sharpie up my nostrils? Who hung me upside down like a dead piece of meat? Oh wait sorry, that was me who let the sickness through my doors. Hm... I need better security. I don't know... Ha! Honey and tea will aid me in this damn "journey".

Really. I'm getting tired of formal foes breaking down the doors on my healthy body. It's healthy for a reason! Go make some other sucker sick! $#!† ∑˙å† †˙´ ƒ¨ç˚ ∂ˆ∂ ˆ ∂ø ∑®ø˜© †ø ∂´ß´®√´ †ø ∫´ ߈ç˚¡¡¡÷÷÷... Yeah go try to decipher that, then you can tell me I'm stupid. Then them or they or what ever it is can blabber on about their lives and act like people actually give-a-hoot about who their new brethren or mortal enemy is. Hey I've said that many times before, but I'm to lazy right now to go back and count. Hey maybe you could do my work for me, because I'm sick and you don't want to get sick-dude-spit all over you. Eh?

We appologize for our dilusional hobo-talk but we are behind in buisness at the moment.
Closed.
Opening time will be when we open.

Liberation of the Free

The probability of a psycho quake is to quadrillion to one. Oh no here comes the break down... Time escaped my grasp twice before and it is liberated from my hands yet again. A circus life bringing my city streets to the ground. A final stand as I reach home, but the explosives go off. No time, haha no time anymore. Work ahead on a dusty road that is un prevailed to the end. A put off task, what more should I ask. Please, give me more.
The battery sinks to the lowest point of Tatarus and is forever mourned by me. A chance of a split crack of writing time might come my way... Might...

Red Matter

To aptly describe the moment, I would have to have an outbreak of anger and rage, leaving remnants of wire and glass shattered on the floor. Decibles, estimated and rounded to one hundred, they pumble my ear drums and split through the skin and into the hollow vessel. It rips through my senses, and commits a profound arson. My, my, options shrink as the red matter is injected to my inner core. A petrifying black hole emerges from my heart and buries me alive, comparing and contrasting the right and wrong in me. Before I am split into oblivion and cast out to a 9th dimension, I am stricken by an invisible force that binds me to a tree a stitched scar. Two things seperated, and bound back together by that... red matter.

A dense colony of dead memories and undecided prophecies. No words, haha it's gone. I'm gone, for the moment.

Hm... What to Put as the Title... Hm...

A guilt for the non proceeded attempt to flex my emotions. A retorical question; where have I been all this time? Stuck in the middle while time slides beneath it's self, tetonic plates of seconds and hours crashing and structuring valleys of mountains I must over come to type a small paragraph again. If time had a simple definition it would be wasted.

time: noun/enemy (tie- m´)
1.a simple measurement that gives you the idea that your life is slowly turning to dust
2. something that you can't evade and can not make it go slower

Valleys bring small parcels of guilt and pleasure, the pleasure proceeds to guilt and so on. A journey denied but so often accepted. Yet there is no chance for another decision due to the labyrinth I roam. A long past, an evolution of character. My spine spins but my head stays still. Others' notions flood my self awareness and guilt rides among my soul again. I'm forced against a fence and played like a puppet, being controlled by sinister popes of plastic culture and "propitious" religion. Apparently, souls are flooded with ridiculous claims that an invisible man that created man kind, controls who you are and your life. Hm, that sounds interesting. OK, so our president is a unicorn! They are wrong. My evidence? The mirror in your bathroom, look in your mirror, and you have found your prophet. I am not stating that the "Almighty" or the "Creator" isn't real. He is not real, but he is real. No one knows. My opinion: there is no such thing as god. See? I didn't capitalize his name.

I have one statement and that is all, no wait, I have 2 statements.
1. I am only voicing my opinion, if you don't like it, don't read the rest of this sentence. I'm not trying to change your religious views. I don't care if you are religious, you are who you are and I shouldn't judge your personality by your religion.
2. If Adam and Eve were the first two people then all of the human race on the earth today would be mentally disabled and only one race. Are we like that? I think not

Storm

A hunger, hungry. An itch for dialects, to mist my ambitions. Set to mist, set to concentrate. I can't let the world hear or sense my ambitions, by default, it gets in the way. A jackhammer to crush and destroy that roadblock. The fences must fall.

Spiraling barbed wire, perched atop weaved steel. Climb the fence! Climb, climb, climb! Let the wire sink deep if it needs to. For it is the scars that will aid you through the raging waves that we call; life. Escape it, escape everything else except for yourself. Just a beep on the radar, it comes and goes. Just get that feeling, everything else is recycled and reproduced for the ride of the next wave. Come, borrow the easy, the mellow, the calm of the storm, borrow it and use it well. Wisely, strength comes from knowledge. Knowledge to control this storm and knowledge to exercise this gift you borrowed. Comes running down the hill, I collide with my ambitions. I. Am. Full. I wait for my next meal.

Love Your Mom, That's A Command! Time. Runs. Short.

Mom; when I rushed into this world,
I was bloody, you were dry,
but you supported me when I cried,
you lifted me off the concrete as it burned my flesh and wound
you took me to the bathroom to clean it out, not too late, not too soon,
you give me talks of choleric words and love,
you give me talks of anguish and all of the above
a cry for help,
plea for mercy
soon the fighting will subside
you came to games, washed my clothes, how much longer will I go?
again
mom; when I rushed into this world,
I was bloody, you were dry,
but you supported me when I cried,
love for eternity, or at least until I die ;)

Living Canvas

Paint black as tar stretches across my skin. Moist, scattered across the living canvas by thin finery. Spherical, a tessellation of inverse color. An army, one with no color, something that got life sucked out of it to make nothing. But it is still a something... Opposing force, all colors united, to one blank statement. Opponents base camps, settled in their heart of their foes cavalry. The battlefield still ran moist and muddy. Until the star above greedily snatched it away.

Then all was left but a crust of dry battlefields, and thirsty armies. Minuscule re-enforcements sprint down that living canvas and charge through the cavalry with brawn. They send remnants of paint (or should I say cavalry) dewy and afraid.

Bombs rain from the sky and pick apart pieces of the cavalry, now the bombs and tinted a tar black. Those tar-black living bombs that move like fingers, uh, yeah fingers... Soon the crust dies away and leaves the canvas open again to more thin finery...

All In A Days Work

Water fountains down from the heavens. Free fall speed. A demolition goes off in the troposphere. Level after level of clouds, erupts into syncronised pat-pat-pat. As for me, stuck, trapped, only a hood and a tennis racket to guide me through the steel jungle. A call of ergence, implode for help. A bag, droplets seep through and consume the ink on my paper. Glases fogged by boisterous rain. A smudged picture of a smudged world.

Sucked in and it began, making my way to the steel horse, or cow. Cow is better. Cow is tasty... yum. Ancestral to ranches of steel cattle, tied to rails and feed through circits and pure electricity. I ride it home, but I must ride another steed. Another trusty steed.

This steed, runs on fuel and plastic circles. Etched to grip flat concrete. A slip, dip, and rip. In goes the card, out comes the card, out goes the hand, in goes the hand, in the card goes to it's toasty leather home. Again, the windows are smudged. Smudged pictures of a smudged world.

Aiding my guardian, a crack as the door creaks open. Clambering, up up up.

We all know what it is like, no need for explanation... Homework... Ugh, grrr, arg, damn!

Still stories are fed onto screens through wire. An array of color and movement. A flickering motion, a stop motion, with a click click click as it steadily and evenly moves along.

Comes a sense of empowerment. The music feeds me. I am always hungry. Through wires and speakers, comes empowered excitement, like, like, like, almost like steroids! But I don't do steroids, hahaha imagine if I did! I'd end up like this!

Throes

I stand alone in a bitter world, scattered across wooden floors and blanketed by exigent dust. From a zero pair to infinite doubts and choleric words. No one lends a hand, no one will. You have two, I have two. Most of the time, forbidden to plea for three. Problems can arrise from abyss, and take fractions of hearts and love, and thoughtfullness.

An opposite attraction, denied to be brethren. At will, a dazed few of one's experiences (note the "one's", yes, not "ones' ", but "one's"). Burying all respect for compassion and digging up egoistical terms and literary fatuity. Egoistical terms and literary fatuity, it makes me think. Maybe, a previously dug grave for whom who snatches those egoistical terms and literary fatuity...

Blind gossip (for the writer), and shocking throes for readers and by standers. Who, who who who who who. Who, really needs to know updates on your scorn to another? Well, my prediction: soon, that grave will get deeper, you will write more scorn notes, about people who let you go because; of those very scorn notes of others.

Plastic Culture

Doused in oil and preached before burned. This weekend lit sparks and structured the blaze. Alone, I sit alone. I don't walk alone. I sit alone in a room, masked by profundity. It's white walls and maps sink in me. They stick under my skin to forever rest. Once the next house comes those maps and those walls will jump out at me.

A road ahead, a road of plastic culture. Plastic culture, it's completely see through. People douse their own fires with hypocritical waste, and cleanse in the days work. They mark their opinions on my face for the scars, they forever last. Lay atop of ice and cool stone, just that extra mile. Going that extra mile.

Now, if you look at a half-full or half-empty glass of milk, and compare that to a full glass of water, which one is see through? Can you, emotionally, really, ever be completed? No, because your opinions may change, your life may change. So, if you have that half-full glass of milk, it is better than a full glass of water right? If you are looking at a glass that is half-full and you say it is half-empty, you are right! It is both half-full, and half-empty. Get my flow?

Okay, let me demonstrate. The full glass of water, is full of itself. It is completely see through, and people automatically know what kind of person they are. A see through person who is full of egoistical crap.

Now, for the half-full glass of milk. It is not see through, so people have to go through it to see what is at the bottom. And it is not full, not selfish, so there is always half a cup left for someone else.

Back to the plastic culture thing. So, it is see through, and not broken easily. Stubborn should I say? But glass... Yes glass. My favorite part about glass. YOU CAN SEE YOUR OWN REFLECTION. So, you know what your problems are in life, and you fix them. And of course plastic is see through, so plastic has problems. Glass, is frail, so if you are glass, you are cautious about yourself and how you treat other people, so you are most likely a better person, right?

Hahahaha, I love glass!

Confucius and the Guardian Raining From The Storms

Time is cut short from it's un-controlled life span. The day grew roots at minor degree, it didn't come to me that it was day until about 3 hours ago. A whine, a plead. Implode, implode, implode; goes the vexatious kin. Confucius, in my terms, a master. Treat others the way you want to be treated. Did he structure that? Does that kin underestamate it, or does the kin carelessly scrape away at it's very meaning. Implode, implode, scream, implode. Then, a beg for mercy and forgiveness. Confucius young one, Confucius.

Then, the battle comes to a still halt, as remnants groan and slowly fade away with their life and will. Down comes the guardian from troposphere storms, and calls a retreat call with her bone carved horn. The guardian burrows in a small hole she calls her own. But comes a heavy dose of aftermath. Yet again, the guardian slowly re-furnishes herself and fights another battle.

Mothers Day, has not arrived. But an interval, interval, INTERVAL.

I love you mom! :)