Immortal Echoes

Hydrophiliac

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Mon, 29 Mar 2010 17:43:00 +0000

I can dissolve in water

Immerse me into my self pity
Watch me bubble and fizz
Breaking apart from myself
Becoming my surroundings

I am invisible

You can't see me anywhere
Blending into my fears and nightmares
Easy to ignore; Impossible to walk through
You can't see me, but I'm still here

I can read your mind

I see the pain in your eyes
And the ignorance of mine; purposefully
I can hear you heightning yourself inside
So you can look down on me

I can cry a million tears
And do all of the impossible
Yet I can't sit still here by myself
And bring myself to breathe

I can dissolve in water...

Baby Broken.

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 17:51:00 +0000

I hate it when mentally challenged people get ridiculed. Don't EVER hate them because they're different. They deserve love just as much as you do.

The seed of conceiving went bad
And the rotten fruit of your loins
Turned into something beautiful
Look at her.
The masses scorn the ability to be normal
So scream back that there is no such thing
Walk with your head held high
And look at her
Fade out of the apathetic appeasing existence
Meant to please them
Shine back into her world and show
That crossed eyes and a hint of spittle
Is no reason to go unloved
Look at her
Bowed knees and a crooked smile
And a heart of gold make her who she is
Harsh words and a disdaining look
Send her back to the crucible
And she still comes out perfect
Just look at her

Don't let them hate you, baby girl
Love them in the only way you know how
Don't let them kill you, little girl
Keep walking
Keep running towards them
Just keep going

Come Hither.

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 20:06:00 +0000

A new angst one from me! *gasp* actually...it's really not, but enjoy...I had fun writing it.

Come whisper through my bleeding cracked lips
Come pour my acid into your throat
Leave all of that behind you
And love the stares they give you as you wander
Be the unwed result of bribery
So you can love yourself as well
(Love is the essence of betrayal)
Come blow dust into my drying eyes
And find tears streaking my desert face
And see my face abandoned
By all that's good and perfect
(And holy)
Come walk a mile in my calloused feet
Stub them on my conscience
And bleed them of all the imperfections
Because they are me too
And also they are of me
In the strange sense of belonging
Shunned to the point of
An outgoing irony; literally
It pains
And stains the past with a lovely hue
Of red saturation
So try to love that too
What was in you
Should be appreciated by you
And though the flow may be slow
The approval and assurance
Of it flowing out of me
(And not you, obviously)
Is enough for life's fuel
Just enough
To get through another day

Anon.

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 17:01:00 +0000

To Fall is not to fail, but...

Dropping breadcrumbs
Pieces of yourself leading the way back
To the place once known as home
-Now burned with your starry glare of demons
Searching for the answer folded up inside
Torn apart (pieced together with a child's purple glue stick)
-You ate those once
Ah, and it was only mere child's play
And yet you lost yourself to the brevity of it all
And longed for more, the mirage of becomingness
Painting the blinds onto your eyes for the shielded effect
Guarding the outlet to the soul which is really nonexistent
Running the way to unrequited questions
Falling once, which was enough for the lifetime created
Leaving the trail of tears as remembrance floods into your veins
The words spoken are the poison; your poison
Oh the way home has been burned-you lit the match
The charred remains blow in the thoughts (thoughts otherwise known as memories)
And the old man said to remember
To remember
(Old man, show me)
Remember
To fall is not to fail, but to forget to rise is death

Whisper.

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 04:41:00 +0000

very abstract...or not. you decide.

An octave of sound
And a climax never beginning
Simply calling out
For the end of purity, or the impression of

Cutting corners in the circle of light
Sensing a presence; Blinding
Learning to dance, hauntingly beautiful
To the music of your death

Attempting to grasp unattainable words
Inuendos touched upon, then discarded
Shamefully
Or was it all just a dream...

Once the curtain has droppped
Move to discover the self-portrait
Never painted, only sung about
The songs of old, they give you life

Awaken from the mere dream
And arise from a night of movement
Of dancing and rituals aroused
By a mere whisper...

a/n: if you can figure this one out...please let me know. It's got so many hidden meanings it's scary. Enjoy...

Road To 3am.

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Thu, 05 Feb 2009 05:13:00 +0000

I hate the dreams that are so intense that they haunt you the next day. It kills me.

The dream land, stark in contrast
Fills the mind with wondering and wandering
Pictures of a lost world
Gained by closing eyes
And opening the mind
To what might have become true
(Reality bites, doll)
The character grows in story time
And the eyes follow you regardless
-Playing follow the leader can be dangerous
And taking the first step
Often fails comprehension
But don't shoot the messenger
Who can't help the bitter surfacing
Of memories
That decay and erode the thoughts
Of something gone right
(Wrong?)
It's trapped in a memory
Trapped in a memory
But it's been said already
And the hidden intentions don't listen
-Or lie
The perfection was attained once
And lost to misinterpretations
Of a dream

Far

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Mon, 19 Jan 2009 05:18:00 +0000

Music dripping off the moon like sin
Taking form of lips, pursed in concentration
Weaving around the frost like lost memories
And the footprints can't follow,
Because they still don't know where they're wandering to.

The imagination kills the soul
When the mind decides it wants something else too;
And when a boy loves a girl, the words get lost in
The thick facade of flattery, illiteracy, and the pregnancy
Of silence that doesn't know when to end

Saccharine eyes batting away at the decayed face
Of too many untold lies, and not enough truth
And if there was truth, it got swallowed up
By the constancy of waiting
And the suffering of thinking the world's a joke

Loners feel the sin; the moonlight too
And lovers wake under the glow (it drains)
Running, running away towards shame and something better
Than living conditions filled with uncertainty.
Save it for the weekend, sweetheart.

Yesterday's.

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Fri, 26 Dec 2008 07:11:00 +0000

Where's the logic? It remains in yesterday, and I can't go back.

Bleed the throat with singing
To compensate for bottled up
Intensities
Blink the eyes
To dry up the pain of regret
Because nothing else takes away
The bitter memory of a kiss
That tastes of the façade
And feels like death
(You look like death, they said)
The white lies grow
And you do a line, compensating;
For what can be told, other than
A sweet whispering foretold tale?
Formality is required when
Looking one straight in the face
And the dilating of pupils
Happens when substances abuse the soul
(I forget...do you have one?)
The rolled up brevity of life
Can constitute for the pounding
In my head
Though how, no one knows
And the response to one so far gone
Is to walk away
The cracks in the sidewalk can always
Grow further
And the kiss
Can always rot again

Go Fish.

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Sun, 14 Dec 2008 12:37:00 +0000

What happens when you turn a king from a deck of cards into a cult master, add some innuendos, and a bit of rhyming? umm...this.

The king of clubs
Who ruled the night
And loved his women bound
Stole the queen of hearts
And other parts
And none of them could be found

He was their god
And they his gems
The diamonds in the rough
He took their souls
The dark dank holes
And could not get enough

The deck he used
To hide their face
All flushed from death's pursuit
The spades, the wild,
Are you with child?
Let's bloody the very root

You stupid trick
There is no love
The bridges have all been burned
He cuts you through
It's all for you
You think you would have turned

The dirty shack
The full full house
The candles burning skin
Lay in your cross
Forget the loss
You'll do it all for him

The king of clubs
He uses them well
The queens, they know no more
They followed him till
Their lips were stilled
He killed his precious whores

Utopia.

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 05:30:00 +0000

On nights like these, the rich people holed themselves up in expensive furs, taxi drivers turned up the heat, and the city heaved sighs of frost and smog.

The homeless people, wadded up in a corner, huddle together for a chance to remember what it felt like to be safe. They were the city's underlings, and they were loved as such. Not at all.

The bridges were especially icy on that night, and the two girls under it could hear the tires squealing and bumping, and sliding across the surface in their hurry to get somewhere. That's the only place anyone was ever going...

Somewhere

It started snowing, and the uncharacteristically beautiful girls blew on their hands to get the circulation going.

The man behind them smiled, and watched for awhile before taking a step towards them.

He had a twitch in his left eye...it fluttered periodically as he stared.

The silent snow falling muted any chance of the city folk hearing them. (At least that's what the onlookers told themselves, because rich petty excuses are better than the truth any day)

So the soundless night continued, and even the stars quieted their shining, in reverence for the deed committed.

In the morning, the frozen streets creaked and cried, the trees bent under the weight, and the roadside lights slowly flickered off in anticipation of light.

In the park beside the bridge, they girls were found. Children in that place were taught early on...don't eat yellow snow, and don't trust red snow. It just works that way around there.

The girls had been tied up by their long, stringy (maybe once lovely) blonde hair to a branch of a tree bent over the park bench beside their humble abode.

The soles of their feet had been cut from toe to heel; one of the most painful spots on the body, exposed to the expert knife of insanity.

Their bodies were left perfectly intact and completely naked...red stains tracing thick frosted lines down their bodies and ending in icicles of blood dripping from their fingertips.

No one identified them...no one could. Their faces were gone. The teeth jutted rudely out of a mass of flesh and bone, and the sockets where their eyes had been called for something to fill their void.

And then they were cut down. An end to something that shouldn't have been. The only thing left to serenade their death march was the whistling of the park caretaker as he shoveled away the telltale remains of one more society gone wrong.

Their bodies were discarded in cheap wooden boxes that splintered the corpses as they were slid in and dumped into a mass grave.

And the rich woman from the night before made headlines. It seemed the poor woman had lost her fur coat.

Absolution.

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 04:04:00 +0000

It's been a rough week. It's amazing the things you learn when you thought you knew everything.

Laugh lines haggard
Bright eyes torn
From the strain
Of yet another smile
And forgotten prayers are offered
In retrospect
(Where were you when...?)
A humble gesture
Shrugs off all meaning
Of seeking absolution
Comparisons burn the soul
When lifted to the light
For nothing can measure up
To full exposure
(Fallen beauty burns too)
Betrayal
-Fuel for the fire of pain and
Regret
Don't cry, baby
Close your eyes
The rollercoaster only spins
Sideways
And the tears fall
The wrong way down
When you want to catch them
Fall hard, fall hard.
For skin and pavement don't mix
And I can't hold you
High enough.

Puppet Master.

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 16:10:00 +0000

There always has to be a master...

Strings tugging at broken fingers
And severing just enough
To provoke movement at a tug
With the right amount of pain
A worthless smile painted on
Used to be for your glory
Now requests are no longer placed for it
The grin has all but chipped off
Any idea seems like a good one
When forced with the biting strings
Of a person standing over you
Choreographing all your pain
Blood streams down your arms
As your guide pulls hard and fast
And drops you into the underworld
Just for another worthless laugh
Your uncontrolled feet slip on the slick surface
Of fluids left from the previous dead
And horrified, you're forced to look
At yourself, hanging lifeless
Your dear puppet strings have been wrapped around
Your neck and you see the stain
Of scarlet flowing down your throat
From cuts much deeper than physical
Then you're pulled up again
To perform, but something's wrong
The strings that bound have been dropped
You're free to move about
Frightened, you look around
And though a whole new world is opened
You weakly grasp your lifeless threads
And give them back up to the master.

Masquerade

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Fri, 24 Oct 2008 07:00:00 +0000

Everyone in this world seems to wear a mask on their pretty faces. Including Me.

In my eyes, in my mind
There’s this place made of lies
Where everyone fakes a smile
And there exists just one style

People laugh, people cry
But no one would ask you why
Play along is what they’ll do
It’s all a game, it’s nothing new

And you see me walk down the street
With a smile that’s naught but sweet
While inside, I’m breaking down
But I’d never make a sound

Just watch closely, they you’d see
The painfully hurt part of me
That grows and grows as time goes on
As I fight to keep myself calm

It’s not working, now, not anymore
The lies, they’ve crept in, to my core
And my heart’s not holding up so well
It’s taken time for me to tell

But it’s been there all along
The same lullaby, the same song
Singing, “Masquerade! Masquerade!”
And, “They’re all fake! It’s all fake!”

And I turn, to look around
There’s silence, now, there’s no sound
They’re waiting for me to complete my task
So I reach up and take off my mask

Love Letter.

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Fri, 10 Oct 2008 15:35:00 +0000

I haven't been writing much lately. another one from my archives & one of my personal favorite.

A vignette, when a young woman receives a long awaited letter from an old,good, childhood friend.

Blue.

Black.

The purple shadow…

Cast by the waning sun’s light streaming past the fine lattice window of her study..

One sugar cube was dropped into her tea.

A spot of milk was stirred into the steaming cup, to drown piteously in the dark-umber pit. The back of the spoon made small clinking sounds every time it hit the golden cloisonné rim of porcelain. She watched, with a dispassionate gaze, the milk get swept away in a fashionable whirlpool created by every tiny and precise ‘tings’ of the spoon.

There must only be 10 rotations of the spoon, exactly. The tea ceased to be stirred when a small murky reflection of her face could be seen. The gloomy liquid represented a mysterious yawning cave for her to curiously peer in.

Not one more action of stirring should begin, not one less should be missed; otherwise the flavor would never be right. With countless experiments she had found the proper brew to her taste’s selective consent. She had created the perfect blend. The tea bag had to soak for exactly 15 minutes and not a second later, not a second before- to create the correctly colored brew, the right smell. Otherwise everything would end up wrong, and her evening would simply be ruined.

She had her tea every day of her life at the punctual passé schedule of 5:30 pm. sharp. On the dot. Not a minute later! Not even of a fraction of a second before! All clocks were synchronized at the same time. The grandfather’s clock that lay in the den, the chipper cuckoo clock at the near dining table, and the wood furbished wall clock here, in the study.. all were made to be set at the same time. They all read on impassive faces, the same numerical placard.

Every hour of the hour, all clocks would ring simultaneously around the house creating a near deafening cacophonic choir she so loved to hear.

Bing ! Bing ! bong!

Tick tick tick tock!

Hickory dickory dock!

Plock scholock !

Tick TOCK!

It was the only time the house was alive.

She blinked. She tucked a stray strand of her auburn hair back into her bun; realized the futility that it was not the same, undid her hair and wrapped it back with quick, precise, practiced movements. The soft tanned cascade lasted for only a few moments, to catch the near diminishing sun’s light and reflect the sparkle off the window.

She sipped the tea– a warm, slithering sensation down her throat. The thumb of her hand liked to feel the spoon’s handle of gold plated work. She liked the way the handle had little facets carved into them, and the way they popped up and sunk on different parts to create a pleasing texture.

It was left as a family heirloom. Alone in this huge house left to her by her deceased father. Where the wind was rare and cool. . calming. She fixed a detached stare, at the beginning of snow’s descent.

.. Her hand extended for the tea, fingers crooked around the half-circular cup’s handle, in order to drink again. This intricately detailed saucer of royal blue spring flowers embossed with golden leaves…… She glanced at the matching cups and saucers; satisfied.

She turned to her writing desk, to look at the letter that lay innocently on it.

The mailman had come earlier today, to deliver the letter to her. At the letter’s arrival her prim and proper heart had fluttered and ceased to beat for the stretch of an agonizing second. Her little, little world spun and her breath was still.

She already knew who it came from. She already knew what it was all about. All she had done was wait patiently, dreading and hoping its arrival. Now it was here.

With subtly trembling hands the letter was taken, and grasped between two long delicate fingers. Despite her anxiety, she had managed to utter her mannerly, polite thanks and entered the sanctuary of her carpeted study.

The letter had come today.. this year of 1905. From an old close friend. Her only friend.

Utmost privacy was needed and ensured. None had ever and would ever come to see her. Her only frequent visitor was the unexpected guest of Sadness who was never welcome, but always let in.

But today would be different. Today was the day of her deliverance. Today was the day she was to be set free.

She clutched the golden locket that hung from her neck- the one that rested so contentedly, so lightly near her bosom. She looked at the picture of the young man on one side, that of her close friend, and of herself on the other. Her eyes held a numb gaze in the worn out photograph, but his were bright and hopeful. She etched a kiss on their shiny foreheads before snapping the locket tightly, quietly. She let her hand close around the golden young trinket once more before it fell back to its place like a light caress, on its own accord.

She cauterized and sterilized the letter opener with the lighted candle at the corner of her desk. She used careful hands, afraid of the flame for reasons of her own. She did not want to be burned, nor nicked accidentally; Did not want her blood to spill on her pristine garments, nor on her beloved letter.

The letter was long. The longest he had ever written her. He had so much to tell her. And she was reading all of it, never wanting to miss anything.

She huddled near the soft candlelight– yellow and wavering, flickering at the gentle command of the wind. The place was not so damp or cold. There was a fire raging in the fireplace opposite her desk. She drew her shawl closer around her arms, and instinctively rubbed her arms every now and then. Once in a while, while reading, a ghost of a smile was illuminated by the faint glow of candlelight.

She finished the letter. And she looked up.

Beside her was a vase with a single flower. She smelled the flower near the candle flame, once. for the last time. the flower would wilt and be dry by tomorrow. It was already browning by the edges. She inhaled it, deliberately letting the vanishing scent intoxicate her. the sweet smell of a morning’s day leaving coiled tendrils of rapidly evaporated dew. This flower was of nature’s nurturing hand. This flower only bloomed during the season of Persephone.

She folded the letter and creased the sides. All the pages of the letter were carefully placed back into the envelope.

Except for one.

One single piece of the letter that lay in the open for her to read and re- read in a kind, smiling daze.

Eleanor..

Sweet darling Eleanor! Childhood friend! My Eliney..! It would mean so much to me if you would come to attend our wedding! It takes places only a few months from now.. if you were to arrive early, I am sure my fiancée would be more than happy to take you into her home..

She felt a wave of relief. Her only binding tie to this world had been removed..

In her hands she gathered her plump taffeta skirt, and stiffly straightened her jacquard ivory blouse. She walked to the fireplace.

She threw the envelope into the fire.

She sat down again.

A lone tear fell down her cheek, joyous to finally escape so lonely a prison.

She did not watch the fire burn around the paper.

Did not watch the small blaze lick and swallow. .

Did not watch the embers twist and snake dance in a crackling waltz and fly.

But engraved the sound of the flames engulfing the fragile thin surface of her heart… reached for the letter opener with her delicate white hands and exposed white wrists, and started to slice.

The tea sat unfinished, wobbling. .disappointed at being forgotten.

Spoiled Virgin.

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Fri, 03 Oct 2008 05:27:00 +0000

I thought I was a virgin

until I realized I'd been spoiled my whole life

until I realized how I couldn't wait;

how saving myself wouldn't do

"Sex isn't sacred,"
my 18-year-old jaded mind whispered,
as I watched old Indian women
bless my friend-bride-to-be's bed
The sheets: white, crisp, untouched
pure nothing

"Soon to be bled on,"

I was told

she's a virgin

A virgin

25,

the white roses in her eyes don't lie

The picture of the Virgin Mary in my room
pins her judgmental eyes on my sleeping form
"Spoiled virgin", she whispers
"what a waste of pure manhood."

25 doesn't cross my mind

By 20, I hope to find myself

sprawled beneath a sweat-speckled,

lusty-eyed girl as her

sighs my name and soon becomes

the delicious dirt beneath my finger nails

They,

with their old-fashioned,

old-country traditions

will deem me dirty

but I,

I will love every minute of my

delicious dirt.

Crimson Dawn.

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Fri, 26 Sep 2008 06:04:00 +0000

Well, Just another old Poem.

I look into the night sky
And see that it is red
A reflection of the blood-stained ground
Which lies soaking with the dead

Yet the vision is so customary
I’ve seen it all before
Being surrounded by the plague of death
Doesn’t affect me anymore

At first I cried bitter tears
And asked the silence “why?”
But gradually I accepted my fate
And now I wait to die

Only then will all the violence
The cruelty and malice cease
Only then will I live freely
And be able to dream in peace

For neither consciousness nor deep sleep
Can provide a safe escape
From the confines of toxic hatred
That man managed to create

Now an imprint on the future
An everlasting stain
Never to be wiped away
Not even by cleansing rain

The teardrops from the heavens
Now drop steadily to the ground
While dissolving the bloody blankets
In which they were initially found

So now the sky dawns clear
Opening up my empty eyes
To the stars that dance before them
Like flashing fireflies

And for a moment I am lost
In the memories of yesterdays
That had long since evaporated
Into a dark and blurry haze

But whatever dreams were playing
In the recesses of my head
Are rapidly dissipated
By the screams of the almost-dead

Their cries echo dying animals
Who know they have been defeated
And wish for some final sympathy
For how they have been treated

I wander through their bodies
Where hungry mouths hang open wide
I block out all their shrieking
As hands clutch at my side

Beckoning to no avail
With frantically darting eyes
That freeze suddenly in mid-blink
Focused towards the skies

No more noise or desperate clinging
No more pity for their pain
The clock of life’s stopped ticking
And won’t ever start again

The silence of the still earth
Is mirrored in the sky
Where the candles lighting the fireflies
Also chose to die

And now the sky’s a blank void
In a hollow world of waste
Where the rotting air I breathe
Is acrid to the taste

And I wonder why I live on
In this world devoid of light
Where hope was drowned by madness
In the shadows of the night

I remember hearing Hell described
And being told to beware
But I do not fear it anymore
For I’m already there

Shooting Stars For Your Smiles.

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 16:00:00 +0000

I was leaving. Someplace far away, I supposed. Having an enlisted father did that. For three years I had continued to discover all the extraordinary wonders that Sayerbrook, Massachusetts had to offer. It was as every other town in New England was: small, friendly, and breathtaking. Life was normal there. And I found myself loving the constants that the residents brought into my always changing life.

It was the summer before my senior year when my father sat me down in the pale yellow kitchen of our home. David Hatton was a burly man whose face was scarred over with deep wrinkles and set off by midnight blue eyes. I knew before he even began to talk what this was all about. If there was one thing about my father, it was his inability to keep feeling out of his gazes. Not even his strongest promise of keeping me here until college could make us stay. I understood that, and I would have not had a problem with the sudden move if it had not been of one person.

A girl, in fact, that went by the name of Scarlett Nestland.

We met when I had trouble finding the bakery. She smiled at me, lips perfectly plump, and looked my way asking kindly if I needed help. That smile nearly killed me. It lit up her entire face, even her chocolate colored eyes, and at that moment I saw that it also lit up my entire world. Cheesy as it may sound, it was the truth. I, Gregory Hatton, was smitten with Scarlett Nestland with just one smile.

At first, I was hesitant to make any ties with her. Fearful of being shipped off again, I held Scarlett at arms distance. But she would have none of that “nonsense”. Arguing that I needn’t be so gloomy, she pointed out that there were always telephones and email to keep in touch.

And so, our friendship was born.

It was the night before I was set to leave. Scarlett refused to come anywhere near me afraid that she’d break down into tears. My departure, she said, wasn’t supposed to happen. Not now, anyways. I agreed. Figuring I only had one shot left to tell her how I feel, I wanted to do something special for her. It wasn’t anything too romantic. Or at least I didn’t think it was. I read in a book somewhere that the guy left a trail of clues to hint where he was to his lover. My idea was a much better alteration, however.

I ran up to Scarlett’s front door, rang the doorbell once and left a note in the shape of a star on her door mat, and then hid behind the tree that was situated on her front lawn. It was around ten at night on the warmest summer night that Sayerbrook ever experienced. A yellow light peeked out from behind the red door as Scarlett peered out. She looked confused until she caught sight of the golden star on her doormat. Her small hands fiddled with the tab to open the note up. Two brown eyes melted as they scanned the message.

"Meeting you was fate, becoming your friend was a choice, but falling in love with you was beyond my control."

-Star Gazer…

P.S: A constellation will form if you continue to gaze. Think the hills, my dear, for your next star waits on Henry’s bench.

Her thin lips opened slightly as she breathed deeply. I smiled in satisfaction and darted down the street to my car when I saw her step out onto her porch. So, she continued to play. I was one step closer to telling her myself. I ended up at the Rolling Hills Park in less than five minutes. A new star now sat upon the bench that Henry Dandor, a legendary story teller of Sayerbrook, claimed as his own. Scarlett always talked about how she would sit with him for hours, listening to his stories of World War Two.

She was always a sucker for history.

Sitting upon the familiar bench, she began to read the next star. If I could have seen a little better, I would have seen a tear drop down against her rosy cheek. But I wouldn’t have been sure if it was because of happiness or pain. It would have been too difficult to determine, and I probably would stop playing the game.

"If I could reach up and catch a star for every time you've made me smile, I'd have the entire night sky in the palm of my hand."

The slide beckons, darling. Care to join me?

-Star Gazer

I watched her as she slid off of the wooden bench and ran towards the playground. She was like a little girl all over again. Henry’s bench and the slide were, as I remembered, the most wonderful things to her when she was a girl. And I knew, that if I showed her I remembered, I could show her that loving me was like the loving memories of her childhood.

Long legs slid down the cool red metal of the all-too-small slide. The third star was gripped tightly in between her two hands. As she reached the sand on the ground, she opened the note.

"I was going to name a star after you, but none of them were beautiful enough."

One more star, dear, until the mystery is complete. I believe it might be larger than the big dipper. How about a lakeside picnic?

-Star Gazer

The picnic was already set up, as I sat down on the blue blanket over the moist grass. The moon and stars reflected perfectly over the crystal clear lake. I had hoped it would feel like a dream, for her at least. We had both been saddened by my departure, but there wasn’t anything that I could do to stop it.

I sat with my legs stretched out in front of me as I rested back against my palms. The final star was sitting on my lap, glossy under the real stars that shone bright above, and the star that stood directly in front of me. Her eyes were wide and her hair flying around wildly. But I didn’t mind. She was beautiful. Even the stars couldn’t compare.

“Greg…” She murmured, obviously speechless. “What, I mean, how…”

I smiled, easing her confusing state a bit. She gently wrapped her fingers around the last star that my hand offered her. Glazed eyes peered back at me, ready to spill at any second. Her breath was hitched as she unhooked the last note.

"Love is like a falling star, beautiful, magical and everlasting."

I love you, Scarlett. Always have. And even if I move away, it doesn’t change that.

-Star Gazer

“Scarlett, are you okay?” I asked, cupping her downward chin. A pretty face was covered with salty trails of tears. It was by nature that I hugged her close.

Her arms wrapped around my stomach as she rested her head on my chest, crying quietly. My fingers tangled themselves into her messy ponytail and I chuckled softly.

“Greg, I wish you didn’t have to go.” She cried. “I wish that more than anything else.”

I shook my head mutely and nudged her shoulder, making her look to where I was pointing. Up in the sky, brighter than ever, was a comet that glistened against the pitch black canvas it was placed on. It was followed by a shooting star.

“Make a wish Scarlett.” I whispered into her ear. She closed her eyes and hugged me close. Her crying ceased and she smiled up at me. I had no other choice but to kiss her. And I did just that. It was sweet, innocent, but loving and powerful, as any first kiss should be.

A few more tears trickled down her cheek as we pulled away. But I knew that they weren’t sad tears. They were happy. I knew because the way she smiled. It was the same as the first day we met.

And even though it was pitch black outside, it lit up my entire world.

I knew that with Scarlett, I wouldn’t be able to have dark days or nights. All I had to do was look at her smile and think of the stars it compared with. Each star was just a fraction of her glow.

Yet, not even a sky full of stars could shine like she did.

That’s what made me love her so much.

Vagina.

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Sun, 10 Aug 2008 16:59:00 +0000

I think we are all beautiful on the outside - be it male or female - its only on the inside that we get ugly.

Pale grayish-pink.
Question mark.
Talks back.
Curve.
Invitingly warm.
Learns her lovers well.
Dinner Party.
Cocktail Minnie.
Flirty.
Sunrise red sling-backs.
Sunsets with a dash of childhood regret.
Deep like a tunnel, dark like her eyes.
Elvis.
Heavenly.
God.
Beautiful.
Born with wholes waiting to be filled; fulfilled, thrilled. Born with elixirs, and mixers. Soft tissue orgasm. Baby. Cunt. Waiting.
The blood is harsh, but beautiful. Murky brown youth before the red rose of womanhood. Clot. Breast. A nest of mothers, raised from breast to breast like a chain marking the thin stretch of time.
Vulva (volcano) Clitoris (concaved... candy... creation) sensation. Pleasure is it’s only gain. A rain shower curved with beauty.

Grey.

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Mon, 28 Jul 2008 17:44:00 +0000

There is White, and there is Black... then there is Grey.

There are souls who exist as empty shells
Confined to the misery of living hells
There are those who are dead, but yet walk freely;
A hollow soul in a living body
Then there are those who doubt their way
Who stand not tall, but gently sway
Whose soul yet thrives on the magic of life
Who dare not succumb to the continuous strife;
There are those who exist in shades of grey
Who stumble on the path, but do not yet stray
These are the ones who still cling to hope
Who look to the dawn as a new day unfolds
White are those who smile with bliss
Black are the ones who barely exist
Grey, as I, have not yet fallen
We are neither alive nor dead, we have not yet chosen
I stand here now, awaiting a savior
The dawn has dulled, and my hope wavers
And so I say my final cry
"Let me live before I die"

Rusted Enquiry.

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 17:19:00 +0000

Dirty decaffeinated words
Spit out in the bitterness of midnight
Scrape across the surface
And drip down the chin
(It disgusts)
Alone and wandering can't hurt
And the numbing pain
Of a Novocain powder on your nose
Can be beautiful
The compact mirror never lies
(But I do...)
Screaming praises downwards
Won't get anywhere
And collapsing on the floor
Moves naught but the creaky board
That won't cry for the distress
Of a porcelain toy
BREAK IT, scream, BREAK IT
Tears mean nothing, you'll find
When they don't fall

Maiden Unwoven.

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 02:18:00 +0000

So here's an update for all who were waitin...This is another piece of creative writing I dug up a while ago...it's somewhat bitter, but wrapped up in a nice big bow.

Oh my sweet
Embracing the purest form
Of bliss; the virginal perfection
The game that ends in laughter
And begins never, as it has always been
The light enhancing bright eyes
Accustomed to the joyful glint
And weeping tears of pearls
To emphasize pain previously shed
(It's been frozen in time)
And moving backwards
Into a white wall of flawlessness
Its beauty amazes the creator
For who else could do it properly?
The eyes staring from it
Are precise; perfect
They sparkle with an inside joke shared within
And are sent right back into laughter
Fits of jovial noise
Run through the crucible
And turned out golden
(Some call this love)

And btw, I wont be around for about a month again since I'm going back to my village to visit my grandparents this Friday. Will catchya'll once I'm back.
Take care & Rock on. 8)

The.

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Sun, 11 May 2008 16:09:00 +0000

You won't see The Soul...but It will see you. I promise.

Testing the tentative melody
Replenishing water (flowing no more)
Banishing the thought
Of the one lost to The Soul
(They'll pilfer the unsuspecting)
Burning within the darkness
The pretence of beauty
Alit within them
(They are The Soul)
Wandering through the sustained
Deep throated callings
Of maddening finesse
(They are perfect)
Stealing purity in exchange
For the promise of years
Altering to suit
The evil (They're in control)
And death is not far behind
Those opposing the splendour
Of perfection ruined
In order to obtain
(Everything craved by the spirit)

And then they come
The Soul
They wait
And watch for the inevitable
The breakdown
Of the minds of their beloved
And kiss away sleep
(Death's counterfeit)
In exchange for the genuine
Slumber of The Soul

…It comes

One Shot.

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Sun, 20 Apr 2008 02:29:00 +0000

And she said it again, this time no tears in her eyes, “I never asked you to be my hero.”

My reply was too simple that it was rude, “I never asked you to be my friend.”

I can remember the last occasion she told me those words but last time wasn’t as bad as this moment. There are no tears in her eyes, no smile on her lips, and no room in her heart for me.

She was doing drugs. Not the cheap kind, not the marijuana, not the crack, but the real stuff. The stuff you never heard about because you got to be rich to get those drugs, and she was rich. Her eyes are glazed over yellow and her hair in shambles. Bags under her eyes, and scars on her arms showed that she did much more when she was in ‘happy’ mode; much more than she could handle sometimes. I was her hero, like it or not. I was her savior, passing the world by just for her. I was her knight in shining armor, although she didn’t notice yet. I am, not ‘I was’. She is mine to behold and mine to heed.

Not that I hated it that way. She will always be my escape, so each one of us got something out of our relationship. She’s my getaway from the world that hates me. She’s my exit from the people that ignore me. She’s my only entry to a haven. She is not perfect, but who to say anyone is? Not to say that I was any much better. I, who never kissed a girl, who never saved the day, who never did anything exciting; I, who’s as dull as a pillowcase. We’re all calamities.

I memorized the time she begged me to be her friend. It wasn’t like she didn’t have friends of her own. She had millions compared to my few but she wanted to be my friend. She said I looked like I needed a friend, a girl like her. “I wouldn’t be attached,” I told myself but each day I found myself loving a part of her. It’s not that silly school romances where the guy writes the girl’s name all over his notebook. It wasn’t that stupid love that depended solely on how she appears. She brightened my day. It was as if, even if we were in a room filled with people, she would be the bell of the ball and was still about to socialize with everyone as though it were a one on one conversation. No one ever felt left out. I never saw the people around us darken out as I saw her across the room and I never felt that we were the only two in the room. She was my excitement and I was her relaxation.

He abused her. I don’t know why she stayed in the relationship and allowed it to happen but she did. I was always the one to heal the bruises, the one to kiss the blood away, and the one to wipe the smile off that boy’s face. He didn’t even deserved to be called a man, nonetheless a boy. That was the time she told me, “I never asked you to be my hero.” She needed me and she knew, right then. I was to stay in her life, no matter what. With that statement, she smiled. Her first smile in weeks and tears formed in her eyes.

We were like two small children; hugging in a corner from a huge monster we called Life. And Life, well he brought more scary things. He brought lovely Hope, old maid Reality, bittersweet Love, grim stone Death, and aged Responsibility. We were able to take on most of them, Hope being the easiest of all, but sometimes also the most difficult. We learned never to give up Hope. Hope was our souls. She was the only way we smiled and laughed. The divine maiden confirmed that happy endings were sure to come, but right now her prediction is still not right.

I am going to tell, I need to tell, it’s for her good. I, alone, can not stop her addiction to the inhalants and powders. She will beg me, but I need to fight. But maybe I am doing this for myself. Am I? Do I only need to stop her because I depend on her life? I depend on her laughter? On her smile? On her voice? I depend on her. There isn’t one small part I don’t need of her. I need everything, from her small irritations to her strange humor from puns. I need it because I’m captivated.

I remember the first day she introduced me to puns. We were in the car and the radio was on…some news channel. I don’t remember that but I do remember everything else. She was wearing a thin summer dress that reached mid thigh and yellow high heels. She smelled like peaches. I? I, who was a dork, was wearing a plaid button up shirt and jeans with tennis shoes. I was driving and she, like a cherub closed her eyes and faced a window. We didn’t have to talk. Talking wasn’t always important.

Then the radio said, “News alert! There is a serial killer on the loose in the bay area, please keep windows and doors locked and watch out for any signs of the man…” and she started laughing. I didn’t get her at first. I mean who would express amusement when there were deaths. I stared at her while her sweet laughter filled the car. When she calmed down, she said, “Think of the words as ‘News alert! There is a cereal killer on the loose in the bay area, please keep your cupboard closed and watch for any signs of spilled milk!’” I understood but I guess I had to hear it first than let her explain it out to me for me to find any humor in the joke.

She understood and told me to go to a beach. I drove her there and she expressed her disappointment when she told me to sit in the passenger seat. She took over and drove to a wide field. From there she took me to a tree and sat under it.

“This isn’t a beach,” I said.

“Yes, it is. It’s a beech.” I loved her sense of humor that day. She had this wacky weird sophisticated hilarity that it took brains to understand.

I don’t know how she found the drugs nor do I know when she started them…but I was her way out. I was going to make this stop. I held out my hands for a small embrace. She required one and I wanted one to help me stand strong. Her hands are still holding the drugs, so before I let myself put my arms around her I take her hands and throw the bags to the floor. I had to hold her tightly like she’s about to disappear. I can’t lose her. She’s so much more than a friend.

With my face in her hair and her tears falling on my shoulder, I tell her, “Don’t do them. Don’t use it. You don’t need it to be happy. I don’t use drugs and I’m happy. I have you. That’s all I need. Quit for me and if not, quit for your parents, or if not quit for your child. You don’t want him to be born with disabilities, do you?” She got pregnant but what can I say? We’re already 25 years old. The father of the child left, not wanting the responsibility and she couldn’t kill something alive. She didn’t want to be a murderer or assist in it.

She doesn’t answer so I say the only thing that comes to mind “You smell like peaches.” Those are the first words I ever said to her. I guess it’s because a pretty girl like her never talked to me that I was so tense. She only blushed when I told her, but this time she clutched on to me tighter. My shirt was wet where she cried and her breathing became louder.

When she’s alright again, I let go. Her eyes are red and her whole body is shaking unconsciously but she still looked beautiful.

“I brought you flower,” I whisper to her ear. Her hands are around my neck and mine around her waist. We aren’t hugging anymore, but we aren’t exactly letting go.

Her eyes wander around as if looking for a vase but it’s in my pocket.

I let go and she does the same, afraid that if she hangs on, I would freak out. I reach into my pocket and bring out the white substance. Flour.

She smiles. This is the first time I see her smile in months.

I am her hero…on my own accord to keep me sane.

She is my friend…or so she thinks.

It’s now or never. Maybe there’s still room. A smile causes room. We’re meant to be and although we never dated and I never kissed her, in no way on the lips, on no account on the cheeks, we’re still meant to be, “Will you marry me?”

She kisses me.

When Monkeys Attack.

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Sat, 12 Apr 2008 09:12:00 +0000

Inspired by Nothingman. Now don't try to make sense out of it. Just READ! (:

===========================

A boy went to the zoo on a hot summer's day,
And he peeked through the monkey's cage.
He threw in a rock, and it sent back a shock,
As the monkey was greatly enraged.
The monkey squeezed out, and clawed at the boy's face,
Mauling him with an angered grin.
They were caught in a race, and the monkey without haste,
As it threw the rock at the boy's chin.
And it tore off his clothes, his back red as a rose,
As the monkey scraped blood from his back.
The crowd began to stare, but the boy didn't care.
He just wanted to stop being attacked.
The crowd laughed at his pain, the boy clawed at again,
And it stuck a popcorn bag on his head.
He felt like he was blind, and the agony he did mind,
It just rammed a large stone on his head.
The boy pulled off the bag,
But the monkey was glad, and he got more demented ideas.
He beat him with a bat, and knocked him on a mat,
And the crowd gave maniacal cheers.
The monkey's demonical, archaic plain,
Had now begun to bear fruit.
He grabbed a crowbar, as this was the next par,
In his evil, yet humorous quest.
As he grabbed the bar, and he began to mar,
The boy into painful submission,
He gave squeaks of joy, as the bar was a toy,
For completing his life's greatest mission.
Then the manager came, his face cover with shame,
As he lifted the monkey from the ground.
It mad one faint little sound, as he called up the pound,
While they in-turn, called animal control.
They stuck it in a muzzle, as they began to puzzle,
What could have made the primate insane.
Then he glared at the boy, now not pounding with joy,
And his parents were called on the phone.
He was grounded for life, despite all of his strife,
And he was stuck at the zoo for years.
He had to clean the cages, and keep track of the wages,
And he never was happy again.

Insomnia.

noreply@blogger.com (Impressionist) — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 18:15:00 +0000

I figured out where the word insomnia came from.

Latin origins. 'in' meaning not or no; "somnia" referring to somnus, the god of sleep. in-somnia: no sleep.

I wish I believed in somnus, then I could just sacrifice a chicken or something to appease him and then, bang. nighty-night.

my dad is full of advice. he's all 'mindful' and whatnot. 'breathe' he tells me. 'just breathe, and be mindful of every breath, and concentrate only on the breathing. If you have a thought, just let it float away.'

Darn! My thoughts must be made of Feviquik glue or whatever that really strong glue is called. Suffice it to say, They do not just 'float away'.

I wish brains had an off-switch. At night, everything I hear gets transformed into a sadistic killer who will rip my jaw off. (courtesy of "saw") or I'll get freaked out that my head will get ripped off, via elevator doors. (thank you, "final destination") or that there is a small bomb implanted in my face that will go off and cause my head to explode (I got this one from some ad for a horror movie when looking through the newspaper for the comics).

The pathetic thing is I haven't even seen any of these movies. It's all me and my sick, hyperactive brain.

I've tried everything. Meditation. Soft music. I've counted so many damn porn stars, OOPS... I mean so many sheep that I could feed a third world country.

Nothing works.

I Just can't sleep. DAMN!