beckz212

some say the Water on the sand       sounds like Death which is like a lighthouse Guarding        you from it almost like how Every animal       goes to Heaven which reminds me of Rebecca,    for she is the Lost puppy. which feels Soft and very unlike     the Thought of Death       Written in the           waves.

As for what the sycamore sings, only a flower could guess And as for what the flower sings, only a butterfly could hear as it climbs the vines like tiny staircases to the heavens The vines keep going, like a never-ending green staircase That leads to a world where trees that are many years old are snapped in half like twigs For even the strongest of things are broken by time

Letter after letter falls From untainted lips They never even once had chance And now have lost their grip They tumble through the darkened space Like angel with broken wing Unto the poor whitewashed paper But whom is worth nothing The cloud-paper is vastly thinning Gone from the third eyes sight Far beyond the swollen moon Into the tears of night

Rain.I think about rain a lot. But not in the usual way that most people think of it. I imagine the rain falling, Harder and faster than anything. Killing thoughts and pain in an instant. Not to mention all of those bad memories springing up like weeds in the back of your mind all the time. What would this rain look like? The invisible flashes of needles, Or the all too visable blade of a knife? Sometimes when I think I scare myself.

There is this sensation. Light, that's what comes to mind. Like you're some kind of human balloon, that has risen on the warm, gentle breezes. Up through this break in the clouds where stray sunlight is streaming down, through the dark rainclouds that had been covering your entire life with smoke and likes and mirrors and mist. Its exiliatring. To be free of Body and Mind and Spirit An just be your humble human essence

So there I was, lying on the damp earth inhaling the scent of freshly cut grass. The leaves were soft on my skin; they tickled the bottoms of my feet and caressed my cheeks. The cool shade held me close to itself like a baby to its mother. This cave inside the butterfly bush, it was my home. If I could live here, I would. Breathing in the grass and the rain and the soft, soft dirt. Squishing my fingers in the world. That little burst of joyous pleasure I felt as the dirt wormed its way between my toes. Bliss.

My eyes have their own way of seeing the world The blackness seeps, the colors swirl Twirling around my retina. Even the music a blank wall sings to my dark heart is beautiful "So then are you really visible?" "Yes." "As a form or as an idea?" "Do you have ideas?" "Yes." "Where is it?" "It is transparent. You could not see it for it is only visible to me." White and padded, black and hard. Should it not be switched? Isn't white the hardest color you ever met And black the most comforting? Ahhhh the silence here is wonderful. It is non-meaningful.

The end. That's what my life is. Non-interesting. Non-dramatic. Nothing. I can walk around the town square a hundred million times and never see what I'm looking at. Instead, I sit at this picnic table… on the edge of the seat, my face on my palm, and stare at the window on the courthouse. Where this perfect cloud is reflected. Only nature is perfect. only nature has no end. It is the complete opposite of the human race. It is the complete opposite of me.

   No one told her those devil finger flowers from a vine entwining a 200 yr old windblown oak had any special powers. That morning she would have done anything.   Last night had been terrible. The screaming—she couldn't stand it anymore. She was sick of the fighting. The hideous bruises and puffy red eyes gave her nightmares. That this abuse would never end.   She left. Four in the morning. Barely an hour after they had finally wore each other out. She carried nothing and she left nothing behind. Walking down the cracked, weed infested sidewalk, never looking up from her feet. Past all of the broken, abandoned houses. The incarnatio