Memory flows such as the milkyway, traveling from conscious drips of solace shining through deep layers of intermittent matter. Earth floating around stars is like our souvenirs pulling together invisible strands.
History is a furry mammal with strong hind legs. It sheds its coat to suit the season and is prone to taking great leaps—sometimes landing in the present.
An except from one of my WIPs: "The piano sobs in agony. It cries for those who will never hear it sing again. It cries for the souls who will never play them again. It cries because it sits alone in the ashes of dreams. That when the piano ends, so too will this story it tells, fading into obscurity. As is the fate with all dead voices - forever lost to the callousness of time."
They were still prowling, fangs out, toothbrush and pyjamas stuffed in a bag around their necks, but they never followed up and disappeared between the responsible bamboo, to pursue easier, juicier prey. Should I simply give up dating these age-appropriate tigers without stripes?
I served 60-watt potato salad and LED fried chicken at the Electric Picnic. Ants set off sparks as they inched over the food and all the dogs' fur frizzled with static electricity. The guests jolted with energy and no one got their wires crossed until the plug was pulled and everything went dark.
I am a crucible just lifted from the furnace of youth; time is pressing. The inclusions of ego, if not removed, will set again and weaken the artifact.
Memory flows such as the milkyway, traveling from conscious drips of solace shining through deep layers of intermittent matter. Earth floating around stars is like our souvenirs pulling together invisible strands.
My dreams are a paperweight in the digital age - decorative, but purposeless, notable only for obeying gravity but now with nothing to hold down.
The rain is a healer. It washes away my tears. The thunder is my therapist always keeping it real.
the page is a colorful
throat, a sonnet
rhyme yellow in vibration
i golden shovel language
into your mouth...
(From a WIP)
History is a furry mammal with strong hind legs. It sheds its coat to suit the season and is prone to taking great leaps—sometimes landing in the present.
The dusky leaves applaud with enthusiasm as the wind performs.
An except from one of my WIPs: "The piano sobs in agony. It cries for those who will never hear it sing again. It cries for the souls who will never play them again. It cries because it sits alone in the ashes of dreams. That when the piano ends, so too will this story it tells, fading into obscurity. As is the fate with all dead voices - forever lost to the callousness of time."
They were still prowling, fangs out, toothbrush and pyjamas stuffed in a bag around their necks, but they never followed up and disappeared between the responsible bamboo, to pursue easier, juicier prey. Should I simply give up dating these age-appropriate tigers without stripes?
Eve is the altar upon which we bleed.
Youth is the threshold to a house that does not want to settle.
Be my Munger, let's build our version of Berkshire Hathaway.
P.S. ( Munger, as in Charlie Munger, Berkshire Hathaway - referring to the highly stable and functional company; could be used for confessing love )
The bird of my soul flaps wings of despair.
Fun!
I served 60-watt potato salad and LED fried chicken at the Electric Picnic. Ants set off sparks as they inched over the food and all the dogs' fur frizzled with static electricity. The guests jolted with energy and no one got their wires crossed until the plug was pulled and everything went dark.
I am a crucible just lifted from the furnace of youth; time is pressing. The inclusions of ego, if not removed, will set again and weaken the artifact.
Grief is the gardener grinding a shovel into your chest, unearthing the horror of pain that never seems to cease.