The Writer's Library.

I looked up at the sky this morning. I drive out just as the sun comes up, lighting up the buttery bottoms of clouds.  I was awed.  Awe is such a rare feeling, one that should be held onto and treasured. Awe and wonder shed years off the soul, my youthful sparkling eyes look up to the sky, breathless.  When I saw you for the first time,  you didn’t smile.  I could only be disappointed.  I was in awe as I got to see you lift your lips and laugh for the first time.  My awe and wonder as it shed years off of your soul, our youthful sparkling eyes look at each other, even to our last elderly breath. 

Are you tired yet? Are you tired of fighting me? I'm tired. I've been so tired for so long. I've been waiting for you to give up. I want to curl up on the floor. I want to sleep, but you haven't let me sleep. I'm going mad, even now.  Three days without sleep. Three weeks, three months.  "Time will go by, and he will forget." Time went by, and he has not forgotten, not in the least. He remembers more and more each day and each night. I just want to die, so it would be over already. Why do you do this to me? What is so special about me that you haven't given up yet? God, give up on me.

A swirl of blurred blue glass, Bubbles distorting the light. Swirling in a kaleidoscope of confusion, Using the dancing light and shadows To create tormented illusions. Here I circle the edges, Faster and faster I race Round and round inside my confined space, In a never-ending race. Yet I feel a near end, It is either me or my glass prison; One of us must break.

I know I'm a too hot-blood tempered firecracker For you. But you were cold, So I melted your ice, But all I found was stone.

Heartbeat. The heart beats and beats and beats itself up, every moment of life. Beating itself up until it cannot beat one beat more.  With motivation it beats faster and faster with vigor, chanting and howling, only to collapse and beat weakly when its energy is spent.  Softly it beats in our sleep. So quiet and lonely, it quietly continues to beat itself.  Softly it beats when we wake, always so quiet and lonely.  Beating itself up when we are sad, beating itself when we are joyful, that loud red organ.  With each beat it brings us life, yet it beats itself because it wishes to die. 

A melancholy mizzle Settled over the falsely promising sunrise. Not a single breath of wind came along To scatter the sky's agenda awry. This miserable drizzle! The awful sprinkle was to last all day. Not storm, or soften, But steadily mist all the day.

How the night changes! We enter into a world where we see, But do not understand. Yet as we begin to understand, We cease to see as vividly as before. In fact, we hardly see at all.

I sing down rain and thunder, Never birds and butterflies.  When I scream, ears shall bleed.  When I whisper, there will be silence.

I use words to paint my pictures Each sentence a swish of the brush, blending without hesitation, Like a master, who expertly refines and forms his subject. Master at his art, yet he cannot express his heavenly visions that appear So bright, and detailed, vivid with colors not from the rainbow, that no mortal can describe. How then, am I to describe to you the complex swirl and storm of emotion that I feel? How can one paint a scene in colors that others cannot see? How can one describe their emotions when no such words exist?

I wait for the moon to rise, So I may stir from my stony rest, And unleash myself onto the world. The silence feels velvety warm On my dry skin, Restoring its healthy lush and spring. What a pity that others cannot see This youthful, invigorated, opulent, glowing spirit. Only in the darkness do I feel this way, For once the light comes, I crumble back into cold marble, With glassy eyes.

Woods are the safe places, That keep the darkness hidden. Beneath the covers of gracious trees, Forever hovering and casting shadow. Cloistering the divine dark stillness, Sheltering the darkness from light's prying eyes.

(An Excerpt from a Short Essay)                Why is it so interesting when I write down my stream of consciousness like this? It's all merely gibberish that I just barley manage to haphazardly scribble down in a bemused frenzy. It tells no fascinating story of dragons, or drama, magic or scares, nor anything happy, or sad, or angry. It just simply is; and afterwards, it is hated and harshly criticized by me. Yet, I dare not toss any of my madness; I never know when it might come in handy. I may find my scribbling a useful reference.                          Sometimes I write things, and all they are are bits and pieces of some of my ridiculous ramblings jaggedly cut and pasted upside down and backwards with the dullest of safety scissors and the thinnest of glues, into a semblance of sense.

What does it all mean? Love. The fix. That's all I command of you. Without my precious love, I shall shrivel up and die. My life's blood that I live for. That's why I am here. But you're not. And where are you, When I need my drug the most? Gone. You left. There are other dealers in the streets. In the market for some love of their own. Their smoke might be bitter; It might be as sweet as yours. But they all do the same job, In the end.

Oh how impossible, unfathomable, Appear these beings, Who seem to search me out, As a scientist a specific specimen. The thought of them haunts me by day, And every night I must face them. Which is worse: The endless waiting, With every second ticking by an hour, Or the facing? For each time they appear, "Why???" I persist to them, as I lay still. I wish to only understand, But I suppose it was never my place to know.

This is it. I have gone mad. Lock me away in a padded room, And throw away the key. All I ask is a pad, and some dull pencils, That I may scribble down the Madhouse of my mind, Believing myself to be in Blissful, delusional peace. Tell them I love them, That they fill my thoughts, While my mind shall still have them. Tell them all to carry on, And be happy. The rest of you may forget about me; Do not visit. What good to me is any love that I did not have to earn?

A killer in London, Stalking his prey. A forest in Germany, Where fairies play. A chateau in France, Where houseguests waltz. Prisoners in Belgium Who lament their faults. Forever I am free, So long as I close my eyes I dream. An artist, A killer, A survivor, A romantic. Those who Dream Their life Away Experience Everything And Nothing. How I miss this world, This forsaken, Cursed, Blessed, Charmed, Euphoric, Wondrous, Wonderland.

Finish what you chant, Triumphant and malicious, Your seemings are fictitious. This epic narrative of you An insight of a fragment Of a mind so often stagnant. Only stirring for chimerical dreams, Chemicals slipping through the seams. Smoke, and wind, and electric storm Angry will of character born. Left of reality, Bending out your little farce. Escaping to your child's tower. Not mindful of the day or hour.

Listen to the silence It will teach you sorrow Sometimes it tells me There is no tomorrow Listen to the silence No one is calling. It tells me I am not missed. Listen to the silence It showed me a way out It tells me Death is without doubt.

Venomous wrinkles, Scattering in crinkles, Rippling actuate twinkles, Shatters of unicorn skins drifting in her glassy eyes. A blind doll, Unseen in the mirrored hall, Close her eyes. Quiet laughter, For she sees what is to come.

Tick and tock, Sounds the clock, HOW I CANNOT BEAR THIS. It is not the clock that sounds, Instead it is my heart that pounds. THE SOUND OF MY HEART SLOWLY BREAKING. For every moment you stay quiet, My soul is sent into a riot. I BEG OF YOU TO SPEAK YOUR MIND.