And am putting together
Hopefully
Something better
More pieces
Towards
A full future
Iminbedanditsdarkandiwrotethisonmytinyphone
5/06/14
4/24/14
4/17/14
A Journey - By Edward Field
When he got up that morning everything was different:
He enjoyed the bright spring day
But he did not realize it exactly, he just enjoyed it.
And walking down the street to the railroad station
Past magnolia trees with dying flowers like old socks
It was a long time since he had breathed so simply.
Tears filled his eyes and it felt good
But he held them back
Because men didn't walk around crying in that town.
Waiting on the platform at the station
The fear came over him of something terrible about to happen:
The train was late and he recited the alphabet to keep hold.
And in its time it came screeching in
And as it went on making its usual stops,
People coming and going, telephone poles passing,
He hid his head behind a newspaper
No longer able to hold back the sobs, and willed his eyes
To follow the rational weavings of the seat fabric.
He didn't do anything violent as he had imagined.
He cried for a long time, but when he finally quieted down
A place in him that had been closed like a fist was open,
And at the end of the ride he stood up and got off that train:
And through the streets and in all the places he lived in later on
He walked, himself at last, a man among men,
With such radiance that everyone looked up and wondered.
But he did not realize it exactly, he just enjoyed it.
And walking down the street to the railroad station
Past magnolia trees with dying flowers like old socks
It was a long time since he had breathed so simply.
Tears filled his eyes and it felt good
But he held them back
Because men didn't walk around crying in that town.
Waiting on the platform at the station
The fear came over him of something terrible about to happen:
The train was late and he recited the alphabet to keep hold.
And in its time it came screeching in
And as it went on making its usual stops,
People coming and going, telephone poles passing,
He hid his head behind a newspaper
No longer able to hold back the sobs, and willed his eyes
To follow the rational weavings of the seat fabric.
He didn't do anything violent as he had imagined.
He cried for a long time, but when he finally quieted down
A place in him that had been closed like a fist was open,
And at the end of the ride he stood up and got off that train:
And through the streets and in all the places he lived in later on
He walked, himself at last, a man among men,
With such radiance that everyone looked up and wondered.
future facebook posts
One home and then I'm going drink
I'm watching a J.K. Rowling biopsy movie on Amazon Prime
I think she's going to get pregnant (MY MOM)
I'd like to keep on talking to you but I'm asleep
GET YOUR OWN DEAD PARENTS
eht prey luhv
Please press NEIN if you mean NO
Please press NIN if you mean Trent Reznor
If you lost your camouflage pants in the woods? You WANT somebody to find you
I'm so glad that my name isn't BILL and that you know whom to pay
If you ever want somebody to donate to your organization? Don't call it, "S.P.E.R.M."
4/02/14
3/22/14
3/20/14
Sometimes...
I understand what you're feeling by what you write when I read it.
Is this normal?
I'm thinking that I'm quite the opposite.
There are people that have read more of my writing here and can only glean a gossamer of tendrils of who and what I am in real? life. That was a weird sentence.
I'm much more than my writing, even though it's a huge chunk of my soul. I WILL NEVER NOT WRITE.
I WRITE ALL OF THE TIME.
Not as much as I want to - but I do. Scraps of paper. Jot down things in notebooks, write things on other peoples shit.
It's waves, baby. I'm not you. I'm ME.
I'm a fucking tsunami. I sleep. And then. I'm a fucking tsunami again. And then i'm the quietly lapping pond. AND THEN I'm THHHHEEEeeeee tsunami. The little tsunami. A mini-tempest.
I don't know you better then you see me.
I can't decide what to wear.
snorkel
arm floaties
submarine
just drown
or get the fuck out of the water and stay on dry land
until another siren calls to me
Ahhhh...but you just made me write somewhat about you...
SNORKEL
Is this normal?
I'm thinking that I'm quite the opposite.
There are people that have read more of my writing here and can only glean a gossamer of tendrils of who and what I am in real? life. That was a weird sentence.
I'm much more than my writing, even though it's a huge chunk of my soul. I WILL NEVER NOT WRITE.
I WRITE ALL OF THE TIME.
Not as much as I want to - but I do. Scraps of paper. Jot down things in notebooks, write things on other peoples shit.
It's waves, baby. I'm not you. I'm ME.
I'm a fucking tsunami. I sleep. And then. I'm a fucking tsunami again. And then i'm the quietly lapping pond. AND THEN I'm THHHHEEEeeeee tsunami. The little tsunami. A mini-tempest.
I don't know you better then you see me.
I can't decide what to wear.
snorkel
arm floaties
submarine
just drown
or get the fuck out of the water and stay on dry land
until another siren calls to me
Ahhhh...but you just made me write somewhat about you...
SNORKEL
2/21/14
Will You Walk With Me?
in an amount of painful, laborious and sometimes -
long strides...
i hope that my small steps in life
will be recognized
by true friends
lovers
God(s)
all witnessess
and ME -
after this life......
this life of mine......
will you walk with me?
2/20/14
I Feel Appreciated...
A Thank-You Note to Men
By Mary-Louise Parker
To you, whom it may concern:
Manly creature, who smells good even when you don't, you wake up too slowly, with fuzzy, vertical hair and a slightly lost look on your face as though you are seven or seventy-five; you can fix my front door, my sink, and open most jars; you, who lose a cuff link and have to settle for a safety pin, you have promised to slay unfortunate interlopers and dragons with your Phillips head or Montblanc; to you, because you will notice a woman with a healthy chunk of years or pounds on her and let out a wolf whistle under your breath and mean it; because you think either rug will be fine, really it will; you seem to walk down the street a little taller than me, a little more aware but with a purpose still; to you who codifies, conjugates, slams a puck, baits a hook, builds a decent cabinet or the perfect sandwich; you who gives a twenty to the kids selling Hershey's bars and waits at baggage claim for three hours in your flannel shirt; you, sir, you take my order, my pulse, my bullshit; you who soaps me in the shower, soaks with me in the tub; to you, boy grown-up, the gentleman, soldier, professor, or caveman, the fancy man with initials on your towels and salt on your chocolates, to you and to that guy at the concession stand; thank you for the tour of the vineyard, the fire station, the sound booth, thank you for the kaleidoscope, the Horsehead Nebula, the painting, the truth; to you who carries me across the parking lot, up the stairs, to the ER, to roll-away or rice mat; to you who shows up every so often only to confuse and torment, and you who stays in orbit, always, to my left and steady, you stood up for me, I won't forget that; to you, the one who can't figure it out and never will, and you who lost the remote, the dog, or your way altogether; to you, wizard, you sang in my ear and brought me back from the dead, you tell me things, make me shiver; to the ones who destroyed me, even if for a minute, and to the ones who grew me, consumed me, gave me my heart back times ten; to most everything that deserves to call itself a man: How I do love thee, with your skill to light fires that keep me warm, light me up.
2/04/14
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)